Burning Bright
by SylvieT
Summary: An event will make Grissom reevaluate his priorities. A little angst, a case file and a lot of GSR love.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Like a true addict, I'm displaying withdrawal symptoms already and becoming grumpy at home, so here I am again. It's only a short one, set between the end of season 6 and the start of season 7. I know you were kind of expecting a sequel to _Mens Rea_, but my muse isn't cooperating on that front. This is what came to me instead and demanded I post. It's very hazy in my head still, so comments and ideas are as usual greatly appreciated.

I hope you'll enjoy.

Lyrics are from Guns N' Roses' _Sweet child o' Mine_.

* * *

Burning Bright.

* * *

Brass's brow was pinched, his heart racing, as he screeched to a halt a hundred yards or so from the burning three-storey apartment building. Thick grey smoke billowed up to the hazy sky, blocking the sun, turning daytime into night. Fire engines, ambulances, police cruisers all with their lights flashing were parked haphazardly, blocking the road, blocking his view. A large crowd of onlookers had already gathered, watching the fire and fire rescue's fraught attempt at controlling it in rapt silence and morbid fascination.

Brass got out of his car, pushed through the crowd and then stood still and stunned for a second outside the cordoned off area as he too surveyed the scene before him. Uniformed personnel rushed about, carrying equipment, calling to each other, shouting out instructions, commands, and yet despite the chaos, noise briefly seemed to recede into the background as he stared powerless. The deep sense of foreboding that had gripped him ever since he'd heard about the fire showed no sign of abating. Running a hand over his face, he briefly closed his eyes.

"Please, God," he bid silently, "let her be safe."

He had been in the dispatch room when the call had come in, his ears pricking up immediately at the seriousness of the call. "Did you say '1727 Santa Paula Drive'?" he asked, suddenly afraid, as he moved closer to the dispatcher in question.

The dispatcher glanced at him over her shoulder while her fingers continued dancing over her keyboard, logging the rest of the call. "That's right, Sir," she replied quietly. "402, threatening to spread to nearby properties. Officers are evacuating the area. Fire crews and EMTs already at the scene."

A look at his watch told Brass Sara should be home at this time of the afternoon, catching up on sleep before shift. "Any casualties?" he asked brusquely, and without missing a beat the dispatcher relayed the question to the officer at the end of the line.

"They don't know, Sir."

Brass let out a long breath, then nodded his head and pulled his cell out of his pocket. Hurriedly he scrolled down his contact list to Sara and running over to the PD car lot called her. He'd known before the call even went to voice mail that she wouldn't pick up.

As badge in hand he jogged through the roadblock closer to the building, he scanned the faces of the people who'd escaped the fire for that of Sara, but to no avail. Some were being tended to by paramedics and made to hold oxygen masks to their faces while others just looked on, faces blackened with soot, dazed and confused, shocked and subdued by what was happening. The heat was suddenly intense, the flames clearly visible now, coming out of the front windows and licking their way up to the roof. He looked for her car in the lot, but again his view was obstructed and he didn't see it.

"Who's in charge?" he shouted up to a fire fighter manning one of the pumps, once again flashing his badge.

"Captain De Souza over there," the man shouted back, indicating a man in a red helmet up ahead.

Brass quickly caught up to him, the heat and noise from the fire, the engines and the water gushing all adding to his stress. At this rate, there would be nothing left of the building. Just pray that she got out in time or wasn't home when the fire broke out.

"Captain?" Brass called breathlessly, and the man turned toward him, "Captain Brass, LVPD."

"You know something I don't?"

"Sorry?"

"Homicide," the fire captain said, nodding at Brass's badge.

"Oh. No. I―One of my CSIs, Sara Sidle, she lives on the second floor, round the back. She's not out here."

"And you're sure she was home?"

Brass shrugged. "She's not answering her phone."

The captain gave a sharp nod, blew out a breath. "My guys are inside, searching. If she's in there, they'll find her."

* * *

Quietly whistling to the songs playing on the portable radio, Grissom once again loaded the roller with white paint, climbed the two steps up the ladder and brought the roller to the ceiling, applying the paint in a criss-cross fashion as advised. His shoulder was beginning to ache, but he was almost done. He wasn't a fan of decorating, but the bathroom in his mother's condo had suffered some water damage and since Betty had only just moved to Vegas from the East Coast and didn't know any reliable, deaf-friendly decorators he'd offered his services.

"_She's got a smile that it seems to me, Reminds me of childhood memories, Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky…_"

A smile formed on his face, his whistling turning to humming as the song made him think of Sara. They'd been seeing each other for just under a year now, their anniversary in a few weeks' time and try as he might he couldn't think what to get her. Flowers and chocolates seemed too cliché somehow, and not enough. Lingerie was too obvious. A book maybe, he wondered before dismissing the idea as too impersonal. Besides, he'd already given her a book as present a lifetime ago. No, he wanted something unique and original, something that would show his appreciation and devotion, his commitment to her and to a future together.

That morning they'd met at the park after shift, taken Hank on a long walk and then shared a leisurely breakfast at her place. His place, her place, it didn't matter as such, but he'd had the previous night off when she hadn't, and so she'd headed off to bed when he'd finally left at midday, Hank in tow, to go to his mother's. She'd stood at the door in her robe, still damp from her shower, a vision to behold and he'd had a hard time tearing himself away.

The smile grew on his face as it suddenly came to him, the perfect present, a gift from him, a token of his love he knew she would wear proudly. Jewellery was a girl's best friend, right? Or was that diamond? He was loading the roller with paint again when Betty stepped over the threshold, moving into his eye line. Following forlornly behind Hank gave a series of little whines while totally oblivious to the dog's needs for a tinkle Betty admired his handiwork.

"Do you want another coffee?" she signed when pausing he looked up at her. "Tea? Something to eat?"

Grissom smiled, shook his head and put the roller down. "I need to go into work early," he replied with his hands, "and I want to finish this first."

Betty smiled and nodded her head while openly staring at him. "You look good, Gil," she finally signed, her smile somewhat fading, "Happy."

His expression softening with affection, Grissom straightened up from crouching. Briefly he contemplated telling his mother about Sara, that she was the reason behind his happier, more carefree state of mind these days, but opted not to. It was stupid really, this need to compartmentalise, but if Betty knew she'd want to meet Sara. And she'd have questions, questions that would put pressure on the relationship, pressure where it wasn't needed. He was happy with the way things were, and knew Sara was too.

"I am," he signed back, his smile wide and dancing as he made the sign for happy.

Betty's smile widened once more, and she nodded her head before looking up again and giving the ceiling another appraising look. "You've done a good job," she signed before lifting a flat hand to her chin and lowering it, thanks Grissom accepted with a smile and a sharp nod of the head.

Hank sat on his hind legs and barked, and Grissom lowered his gaze to him and shook his head. "All right," he told him in a chuckle, and then addressing his mother, "Could you take him round the block for me while I finish? He needs to pee. His lead is in the backpack in the kitchen."

Registering a look of surprise Betty turned to Hank and patted her hand to his side apologetically. Grissom told him to go for walkies, and the dog grudgingly followed Betty to the kitchen. The Doors' _Light My Fire_ started on the radio and once again picking up his roller he returned to his painting. Half an hour later he was just about finishing when he heard the front door open and shut, heralding their return. He popped his head round the bathroom door and came face to face with his mother. She was holding his flashing cell phone in her hand.

Thinking it Sara, he pulled his paint-covered latex gloves off and took the phone from her. _Jim Brass_ was flashing on the display, as well as four missed calls. With a sigh, he connected the call.

"Gil!" shouted Brass, sounding relieved, before Grissom had even time to identify himself.

Frowning, Grissom moved the phone away from his ear and reached over to turn the radio off. The line was bad, the noise in the background deafening. Grissom could hear men shouting, engines whirring, sirens screaming. Brass was clearly at a scene. "Jim? I can hardly hear you."

There was a pause, and the background noises receded, muffled now.

"Catherine's on call, Jim, not me," Grissom tried again.

"She's on her way," Brass said, his tone glum and anxious, and then with an edge of despair that sent shivers down Grissom's spine, "I've been trying to call you."

"I'm sorry. I'm at my mother's."

"There's been a fire, Gil. 1727 Santa Paula Drive. It's under control now, but the front side of the building's gone up in smoke."

His heart skipped a beat. He glanced up at his mother watching him with concern and turned away. "But that's Sara's place."

"I know."

Panic began to set in as Brass's words sank in. "Where is she? Is she with you now? Can I speak with her?" Why hadn't she called him?

"I'm sorry, Gil. They had to go get her out. She―"

Betty put her hand on his shoulder, and he turned, briefly meeting her concerned gaze before looking away to hide his distress. "Is she okay?" he asked into the phone, his voice breaking.

"I don't know. She was unconscious but breathing when they got her out. She'd made it out of the apartment and as far as the stairs. But the smoke, well, it must have got to her. They're taking her to Desert Palm now."

"Are you with her?" His words were mere, breathless whispers.

"I'm following in my car. They wouldn't let me ride with her, but they're treating her."

"I'm on my way," he said, and disconnected the call.

Betty touched him on the arm again, startling him. "Gil? What's wrong?"

"It's Sara," he replied, still stunned by the events, "She's at the hospital. I got to go."

"Sara?" Betty signed carefully. "From work?"

Grissom swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded his head. Hurriedly he began putting the lid back on the paint pot and gathering brushes and rags. Betty stopped him and told him to go, not to worry, that she'd tidy all that. He gave her another fraught nod, and staring at him closely she lifted her hand to his face and gave him a small, pained smile. He didn't need to tell her how much Sara meant to him, that she was more than just a work colleague, she'd read it in the sudden deep ache and anguish in his eyes.

"There was a fire," he signed, tears welling.

Betty gave a nod. "Go," she signed, mirroring his distress, "Go be with her."

He was about to go when he had a moment's hesitation and his gaze lowered to Hank hovering anxiously nearby.

"I'll look after Hank for you," Betty signed, reading his mind.

"I don't know how long I'm going to be. No, it's all right. I'll take him to the sitter on the way." He moved over to the sink and pulled the dust sheet off to wash his hands and face.

"That'll take time," Betty replied with her hands. "He's fine here, with me. I promise not to forget his walk. Just go."

Her attempt at levity failed. He turned off the water, then took in and released a deep breath. Hastily he dried himself and changed his paint-splattered T-shirt for a clean one, but kept his old jeans and sneakers on. At the front door, Grissom bent down to Hank who had been following his every move with intent and ruffled the top of his head affectionately.

"You're staying here," he told the dog warmly, and then when Hank's doleful eyes got too much, "Sara's okay. She's okay. She's going to be fine."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Just in case you are wondering after reading...A bronchoscopy is a procedure performed through a small scope to look directly at the degree of change done to the airways and to allow for suctioning of secretions and debris.

And remember I'm not a doctor, so I apologise for any mistakes in that respect. Thanks for reading and please leave a review. ;-)

* * *

The automatic doors opened and Grissom rushed into the ER making straight for the main desk. He didn't notice the crowded lobby and waiting area, or Brass suddenly looking up and straightening in his seat as he hurried past. He'd driven like a maniac to get there, parked in a handicapped spot. Brass's call had sent him into a spin, its lack of specific detail as to Sara's exact condition fuelling his anxiety.

The statistics didn't lie, he kept thinking. An estimated fifty to eighty percent of fire deaths are the result of smoke inhalation injuries rather than burns. What if he was already too late? What if she wasn't to make it?

A couple of doctors stood behind the desk conferring over a file, a nurse was on the phone, while another was updating patients' details on the wall-mounted board behind the counter. Sara's name didn't feature, but he figured that was because she'd only just come in. He came to a sudden halt and leaning over the counter breathlessly addressed the nurse. His panic and worry were undisguised, palpable.

"Sara Sidle," he said without preamble, and paused to catch his breath.

The nurse turned toward him.

"She was brought in about a half-hour ago? House fire."

The nurse pursed her lips. "Let me see. Several people were brought in at the same time. Are you her next of kin?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. Whether he legally was, or not, was of no importance.

The nurse nodded, then searched through a stack of clipboards piled up high on one corner of the desk and pulled one out. "She's stable," she said at last, as her eyes scanned Sara's medical notes, and looked up. "She was brought in with a diagnosis of severe smoke inhalation and burns to her right hand."

Grissom remembered Brass telling him that the fire department had found her in the staircase and he could well imagine she'd burned her hand while letting herself out of her locked apartment. The heat, the smoke, would have been so intense and disorienting. Thank God she'd woken up and made it out of bed, he thought suddenly. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. The thought of her in that fire, panicked and suffering, tore at his heart.

He blew a calming breath, nodded his head. "How severe?" he asked, fearful.

"You'll have to ask the doctor that, I'm afraid."

"When she was…found, she was unconscious." His voice broke with emotion, and he cleared his throat. "Has she…hum…regained consciousness at all?"

The nurse consulted the chart. "She hadn't when she was brought in. She's been assessed and tests have been ordered. We'll know more when her blood cultures come back, but according to this she's on a hundred percent oxygen at the moment. I can't tell you more than that, I'm afraid. Dr Winslade is the attending. I'll track her down, let her know you're here. She'll explain everything in more detail."

"Can I see her?"

The nurse gave a well-practised, appeasing smile. "I'm sure you can, very soon." She reached over, patting him on the arm, and Grissom mustered a weak smile back. The nurse then reached down below the counter, produced a sheet she clipped to a new clipboard with a pen on a string attached to it, and held both out to him. "I need you to fill this in, please, Sir, while you're waiting?"

Grissom looked down, nodded his head and wordlessly took the clipboard and pen from her.

"Try to fill in as much as you can, as accurately as you can, and then just drop it back here when you're done. There's a waiting room over there," she said, pointing, and Grissom numbly followed where she was indicating, only now noticing Brass watching, a small, crooked smile slowly forming as he met Grissom's gaze. "Dr Winslade won't be long, I'm sure."

Grissom turned back to the nurse and nodded his head. "Thank you."

The nurse flashed a smile before turning to address the next person, and with a sigh Grissom walked over to where Brass was sitting. He felt flushed and sweaty despite the air conditioning, while Brass looked downright tired and anxious. He stood up, briefly taking in Grissom's appearance before lifting his eyes to his, a question in them. "Any news?"

Grissom shrugged. "The nurse only confirmed what you'd already told me and that she was stable. I'm waiting to hear from the doctor that's treating her."

Brass nodded, and they sat down side by side. Grissom tried to reign in his emotion for the sake of appearances, put his professional mask on his face, but it was hard. A television showing the latest sporting results hung in one corner of the room with the sound turned down low. Idly he lifted his eyes to it, thinking it would give him something to focus his mind on. It didn't work.

"God, I hate hospitals," Brass said, as a message went out over the PA system. "All that waiting around..." his words faded and he sighed.

Remembering that not that long ago it had been Brass in the ER with a bullet through the chest, Grissom flashed an awkward smile, nodded his head. "Thanks for staying with her, Jim," he added after a while.

Brass's shoulder lifted. "This is the closest they'd let me be, you know?"

"Still, it means a lot she wasn't alone."

Nodding, Brass watched Grissom, seemingly waiting, maybe suspecting, but Grissom wasn't ready to tell the world just yet. Brass's eyes lowered to the clipboard Grissom was clutching in his hand. "You got any means of contacting her family?" he asked. "I know her father died but…" his words trailed off uncertainly.

Grissom blew a long breath; he'd not even thought about it. He chose his words carefully. "I don't think that's what Sara would want. Not yet anyway. Let's just…wait till we know more."

"I'm sure the doc will be over soon."

Grissom gave a pallid nod. Another message played over the PA system, and glancing toward the main desk Grissom shifted impatiently. "How long would you ascertain she'd been unconscious for? I mean, before they found her."

"I don't know," Brass said quietly. "But they treated her real quick once she was out."

Grissom swallowed, nodded his head and looked down at the clipboard in his hand. He grabbed the pen, but his hand shook too much for him to be able to write legibly. "You said the fire department had the fire under control?" he said, slowly closing his hand in a fist to stop the tremor, and looked over Brass. "How bad was it?"

Brass shook his head. "It was bad, Gil, spreading and burning very quickly. I don't think there'll be much left they can salvage."

"What the fire hasn't destroyed, the smoke or water will have," Grissom remarked quietly, and sighed. Then his gaze narrowed at Brass's words. "You think the fire was started deliberately? That some sort of accelerant was used maybe?"

Brass opened his hands in a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine gesture. "That, or someone was storing stuff they shouldn't have. FD will tell us."

The two men fell silent. An old man sat down across from them, nodded his head. A woman paced nearby, trying to soothe a fractious baby. Grissom rubbed at his face, then looked up to the TV before sitting up at the images on the screen, live aerial shots showing the blaze itself and fire crews perched on the end of ladders holding hoses as they tried to control it, then its aftermath, the still smouldering remains and more damping down efforts. Night was beginning to fall.

His heartbeat quickened again. It was strange seeing the familiar neighbourhood from the sky, heart-breaking to witness its desolation and the charred mess of what was left Sara's apartment building. He tapped Brass on the arm, indicated the muted images and together they watched the action make way to a reporter standing outside the cordoned off area against a backdrop of fire trucks.

He was interviewing a balding man with an expressive face and who gestured a lot, a witness presumably – a neighbour or resident maybe, someone Grissom didn't recognise – that had seen it all happen and was now regaling the reporter of the finer details. The man's name flashed on the screen, and without even realising Grissom made a mental note of it. When the footage ended and the news programme cut to commercials, he looked over to the front desk again and to the nurse he'd spoken to before, now on the phone, silently pleading with her to hurry. He checked his watch; the wait was excruciating.

"Does Sara know how you feel about her?"

Grissom's head snapped up, Brass's question catching him totally off guard. He thought about playing dumb, but was far too anxious and worried to bother denying it. "Is it that obvious?"

Brass shrugged his reply.

"Yes, she does," he answered at last.

Brass gave a slow nod. "It figures. I mean, I always knew you two had…how can I put it…affinities. Sara, bless her, she wears her heart on her sleeve, but you? I never thought you'd act on your feelings for her."

"Well, I did," Grissom stated, a little smugly, or was it proudly?

Brass smiled warmly. "How long?"

Grissom's smile was soft and contemplative. "A little under a year." He eased a look at his friend, waiting for his reaction.

Brass's brow rose in surprise, then he gave a wry chuckle. "And no one knows?"

Grissom shook his head. "And it must stay that way. Too much is at stake."

Turning in his seat Brass patted his hand to Grissom's leg. "Your secret's safe with me, but you might want to…play it cooler than you've been doing so far."

Before Grissom could respond a small woman dressed in blue scrubs came into the waiting area, scanned the many faces and called, "Family of Sara Sidle?"

Grissom set the clipboard down on the next chair. "That's me," he replied, pushing to his feet abruptly with Brass flowing suit more sedately.

"I'm Dr Winslade. I treated Sara when she was brought in."

"Gil Grissom," Grissom said, "and this is my friend Jim Brass. How is she?"

"She's stable, already showing signs of responding to treatment. Her skin colour is a little better as a consequence." Sharing a look with Brass, Grissom blew a breath of relief. "She briefly regained consciousness and gave positive responses to stimuli. The EMTs acted fast, immediately administering one hundred percent oxygen in the setting of hypoxia―"

"Hypoxia?" Brass interrupted.

"It's when not enough oxygen gets to the body," Grissom provided with a sideways glance at his friend before refocusing on the doctor and silently urging her to carry on.

"Hence treating the likely carbon monoxide inhalation, which is what we're carrying on with until we get the results of the blood cultures we've sent for and know more about level of poisoning."

Brass's phone chose this moment to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the screen and after giving a quick apology stepped aside to take the call.

"What about damage to her lungs and airways?" Grissom asked.

The doctor's shoulder lifted. "Without looking at chest X-rays it's hard to tell. We're waiting for a slot in radiology, it shouldn't be much longer. All we can see for now is that her nostrils, nasal passages and throat all show some degree of exposure to heat and signs of swelling, which is what we'd expect."

"Are you going to do a bronchoscopy?"

"Not at present. We're monitoring her closely and if she fails to demonstrate enough clinical improvement within the next few hours we will."

Grissom nodded. "And her hand?"

"She suffered some second degree burns to the inside of her right hand, but that's all." The doctor opened her hand flat, palm up toward him, and showed him where. "Think of it as bad oven burns. It'll heal, and in time she should regain full function of her hand."

Grissom blew out a breath of relief. "Can I see her?"

The doctor patted him on the arm and smiled. "Give me five minutes, and I'll take you to her."

Grissom nodded, then watched the doctor go and turned toward Brass, still on the phone.

"Thanks, Catherine," Brass said, before disconnecting and looking over at Grissom.

"So?" they asked in unison.

"You first," Brass said, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

"She's doing okay. They're waiting to take her to X-ray to check her lungs, but she's responding to treatment."

"Oh, that's good," Brass said, clearly relieved, before he sighed and his expression darkened."Fire department appears to have found…evidence of accelerant. Petrol most probably, and a lot of it. They found some badly burned cans among the rubble."

A chill ran through Grissom. "So we _are_ looking at arson."

"It would appear so," Brass said, nodding. "But that's not the worst of it. Catherine said they found a body."

"A body?"

Brass nodded. "Female, by the looks of it, and inside apartment 1B according to the building plans. They're trying to contact the owner, see who lived there. The coroner's on his way."

Looking off into the middle distance, Grissom gave a nod and tried to put a face to the woman who lived in 1B, whose path he may have crossed, and even said a polite "Hello" to, but conjured up nothing. Someone had started that fire deliberately, killing an innocent victim and seriously injuring Sara.

"Gil?"

Grissom gave his head a shake, refocusing.

"Catherine says not to worry about shift," Brass went on, "that she and the guys have got it covered. They were all very shocked when they heard and wanted to come to the hospital, but Catherine convinced them that they'd be more useful at work."

"I'll call her when I've seen Sara."

"That'll be good." Brass looked around the waiting room while restlessly swaying on the ball of his feet. He clapped Grissom on the shoulder. "I can see she's in good hands, so I'm going to make tracks now. Head back to the scene. You call as soon as you get more news, all right?"

"I will."

Grissom watched Brass leave through the automatic doors, then heavily sat back down on the hard plastic chair and rubbed the weariness from his face. Then he picked up the clipboard and filled in Sara's details as well as his, her next of kin.

"Sir?"

Grissom looked up at Doctor Winslade with a start.

"She's awake."


	3. Chapter 3

Catherine stared at the gutted building with disbelief. Now that the fire was out and most of the smoke had cleared, she could see that the damage was extensive and spanning all three floors, but mainly concentrated to the front half of the building. The roof had partially caved in there, where the fire had been at its most intense, the charred remains of the roof frame sticking up toward the darkening sky ominously. Would the building have to be knocked down altogether before it was rebuilt, she wondered?

What must it be like to lose everything in a matter of minutes? Catherine's heart clenched at the thought. She couldn't imagine losing her home, everything she'd worked so hard for, all her mementoes, Lindsay's baby stuff she'd kept in a box on the top shelf in her closet. She hoped Sara's apartment was situated at the back, and then maybe some of her things might have been spared.

Catherine had only been to Sara's place once before, and she'd not made it further than the car lot. Sara had just found out her then-boyfriend was two-timing her, and they'd shared a drink after shift and commiserated. Catherine was used to men cheating on her, always more or less expected it, whereas Sara wasn't. The deception had hit Sara hard, and at the time Catherine was glad she could see past their differences and be there for her. They'd turned a corner then, their relationship shifting from professional to more friendly, the rivalry between them lessening.

"Does this look like Sara's to you?"

Catherine turned with a start and looked at the tan boot Greg was holding in her line of vision. It was a man's boot, well-worn and speckled with soot, size eight or nine, if she were to hazard a guess. The laces were undone and dragging. "It certainly looks like something she'd wear," Catherine replied in a sigh, and looked up at Greg. "Where did you find it?"

"Over there, near the fire truck," Greg said, motioning toward the car lot.

Catherine looked in that direction, where the fire department was beginning to pack away its gear. Maybe the boot had fallen off Sara's foot when the firefighters had carried her out of the building and rushed her to an awaiting ambulance. "I don't think she'll want to wear it again," she said, bringing her gaze back to Greg.

Lips pinched as he stared at the boot, Greg gave a nod. "I'll keep it anyway," he said, not meeting her eye and sounding all choked up.

Catherine's features softened with affection. The coroner's truck pulled up nearby, and Greg quickly, surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. David and two assistants got out. Catherine and Greg watched as the trio kitted up, a forlorn David nodding his head at them as he walked past, headed to the scene where the fire chief met them and talked them through how to access the corpse.

"I feel so damn powerless," Greg exclaimed suddenly and kicked an invisible stone in frustration. "I just wish there was more we could do for her before it's too late."

"It's already too late, Greg," Catherine said.

"She's lost everything."

Catherine sighed. "She still got her life," she said. "And she's got us. We'll help her through this."

Greg nodded his head, then pinched his lips and shook his head, and Catherine wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "All I keep thinking," he said, "is that the body inside the building could be hers. What if they hadn't got her out?"

Catherine kept a protective arm around Greg's shoulders. "But they did get her out, and they're doing all they can for her now, which is all that matters."

"I wish Grissom would call with news."

Catherine gave Greg an indulgent smile, patted his shoulder. "He's probably at the lab already, updating Nick and Warrick on her status." She lowered her arm and checked the time on her watch. "Come on, we should go. There's nothing for us to do here, not until the building's been declared safe."

"What's CSI doing here?"

Catherine and Greg turned around with a start. Catherine's face lit up with a smile of pleasure and satisfaction alike. Fire investigator Schaffer was tall, broad and imposing, his wide smile as mesmerising as his dark eyes. Not only was he good on the eye but also the best in his field. His and Catherine's paths had crossed once before when they'd worked alongside each other investigating a warehouse fire that had killed a couple of vagrants, an insurance job gone terribly wrong. Needless to say Schaffer had made an impression on Catherine, and judging from the way he was staring at her now it looked like she had on him too.

"One of our friends lives here," Greg said, filling the silence, "_Lived_ here. We want to know what happened."

Schaffer's smile faded. He took his eyes off Catherine, fixing them onto Greg. "Are they okay?"

Greg shook his head. "She's at the hospital."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Smoke inhalation," Catherine explained, "but they think they got to her in time."

Schaffer turned back to Catherine, lifted a brow that said, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

Catherine's smile widened. "Greg, meet Mike Schaffer – fire investigator with the LVFD. Mike, this is CSI Sanders."

The two men exchanged nods, then Schaffer turned back to Catherine. "You need to let me do my stuff, Catherine. As soon as I have something for you, as soon as I find evidence this fire was started deliberately, _if_ it was started deliberately, then you'll know."

"They found accelerant," Greg argued.

"No. They found gasoline at the scene, which may have acted as accelerant." He turned back to Catherine, fixed her with a disarming, but firm look. "As soon as I know, you'll know."

Catherine gave a nod. "You got my number?"

Schaffer's smile returned. "I'm sure I can find it somewhere."

"What about our friend's stuff?" Greg said. "When can we…take a look, see what we can salvage? There has got to be something left to recover, right?"

The look on Schaffer's face told Catherine he didn't think there'd be much worth saving. "You still work nights?" he asked her.

"Sure do."

"All right." He glanced at Greg as he spoke. "Then come back tomorrow – noon. I should be done with my prelim by then. Provided it is safe to do so and your friend's stuff isn't needed as evidence, you can take a look." And with that Shaffer placed his safety helmet squarely on his head, which he tipped to Catherine, and walked off toward the scene.

* * *

"She's awake, but under heavy medication," Dr Winslade said as they walked. "She's not in any pain. She – or you – mustn't try to remove the non-rebreather mask. It's crucial she keeps it on – it's helping filter out all the chemicals, soot and impurities she breathed in during the fire. Talking _will_ hurt, and until we have a clear picture we must limit further damage to her throat and larynx."

Grissom swallowed. "I understand."

They entered a room with a row of four curtained cubicles on either side. Some were open, others shut. Grissom could hear the quiet humming and beeping of equipment, voices talking and even laughing, and moans and groans of pain. His phone beeped in his pocket. Quickly he pulled it out, and ignoring his mother's concerned text put it on silent.

"We've cleaned her up a little," the doctor went on in a quiet voice, "but she's still quite…dirty, you know, from the fire. She'll be taken up to the ward after the X-rays and cleaned up better then."

Grissom nodded. "How long will she have to stay in hospital for?"

Dr Winslade stopped, and Grissom followed suit. "It will depend on recovery, of course, but a few days at the very least, a week maybe."

"As long as that?"

"I'm afraid so," the doctor said, and paused. "She's in curtain two."

An alarm sounded suddenly, coming from his left, followed by the loud, steady voice of a nurse declaring respiratory arrest and calling for the crash cart. Grissom's heart stopped. Without a word Doctor Winslade set off at a run, entering a cubicle a little further ahead. Filled with sudden panic Grissom followed her. He stopped and watched helplessly the doctor and nurse attend to their patient, his heartbeat returning to a more sedate rhythm as he came to the realisation that they weren't treating Sara. A nurse rushed past him, pushing the crash cart, and he stepped aside.

When the curtain was pulled shut in front of him, he turned around and scanned the area for curtain two. He took a breath, and bracing himself for what he knew he would find, slowly pried the curtain open. Immediately, he felt a rush of relief course through him, his agitation and anxiety stilling for seeing her at last. Wearing her usual sleepwear of shorts and tank top, she looked almost peaceful as she slept.

The hospital sheet hung loose, barely covering her legs. At the foot of the bed in a clear plastic bag was her robe, the pink one he'd gifted her for her last birthday. Next to it in a second clear plastic bag was one tan boot, the other presumably lost during the rescue. Both items were covered in black dust particles, soot he realised sadly, a stark reminder at how close she'd come to not making it.

She'd been wearing the boots that morning for their walk with Hank. He remembered very clearly as afterwards she'd tiredly collapsed onto the couch before slowly unlacing and taking them off. He'd picked them up for her, placing them by the door as per her habit, ready for the next time. He could see it happen now, in his mind's eye, her being woken up disoriented and groggy from sleep by the acrid smell of smoke seeping under the door into her apartment, or by the shrill blare of the smoke alarm, or both?

Was she scared? Panicked? Or did she think it a small fire, one that necessitated evacuation but nothing overly worrying? Automatically she would have grabbed her robe from the end of the bed and slipped it on over her pyjamas, shoved her bare feet in her boots by the front door and left the apartment, in her dazed state forgetting to check whether the handle could be hot. Fresh tears appeared, prickling at his eyes.

Gingerly he went into the cubicle, letting the curtain fall in place behind him, walked up to the bed and watched her, his vision blurred. He'd come so very close to losing her, and it was only just fully sinking in. Blowing a deep, steadying breath, he lifted his hand toward her before withdrawing it shyly. She looked very pale underneath the soot smears, her skin with the remnant of a blue tinge, not the cherry-red he had been expecting.

He could see some attempt had been made at cleaning the soot from her face and eyes. They were closed, her breathing regular and controlled by the machine. The mask covered her mouth and nose, and he was grateful she hadn't needed intubating. Electrodes attached to her chest linked her to monitors that recorded her vital signs, red and green lights and lines at once worrying and comforting. Fluids and medication were fed through an IV drip into her left arm.

His hand lifted again, drawn to her, and gently pushed strands of dirty hair away from her face. He watched her tenderly for a long moment before he leaned over, softly pressing his lips to her forehead and closing his eyes. Her skin, her hair, the bed sheet, all smelled of smoke and he knew that smell would stay in his nostrils a long time. When he pulled back from her, her eyes were open. They were blurry and unfocused, bloodshot, but open and watching him.

"Oh, Sara, sweetheart," he gasped, his eyes filling with tears again, his lips pulling into a small smile she didn't – couldn't – return.

She made a sound, a low gurgling moan, and he realised she was trying to talk.

"Honey, it's okay," he soothed quietly. "It's okay. You're in the hospital. You're safe." He forced more enthusiasm in his tone. "Please don't try to talk."

She blinked, the look in her eyes suddenly probing, inquiring.

He sighed. "You're suffering from smoke inhalation," he said. "But they're dealing with it, okay?"

Weakly she moved her head, in acquiescence maybe, then lifted her injured right hand off the bed.

He swallowed before he cleared the emotion from his voice. "You burned the inside of your hand," he said, knowing she could probably see the bandage but not feel any pain. "It's not as bad as it looks. The doctor said it will heal and that you'll regain full function."

Her eyes drifted shut, before she forced them open again.

"Don't fight it," he said. "Rest is good. Soon they're going to take you for an X-ray, check on your lungs, and then they'll move you to a ward. I won't be able to stay, I'm afraid. But I'll be back in the morning."

Her eyes once again shutting, Sara managed a weak nod. Grissom's eyes lowered to her chest, and how little it seemed to move as she breathed. He picked up her hand, her good hand, and minding the IV line brought it to his face, to his lips while he closed his eyes, the rush of love that flooded him overwhelming in its intensity. Sara's fingers moved inside his loose grasp, brushing over his mouth, and he pressed his lips to them. He'd never felt such love and tenderness for another human being before, such an instinctive need to protect. Protect _her_.

Until that very moment, he hadn't known he was capable of feeling so much. When he reopened his eyes hers were still closed, the effort to keep them open and fight the drug-induced drowsiness too great. Gently he pressed his lips to her hand again and lowered it back to the bed, carefully placing it over her stomach. He would go now. He needed to be at work. He needed to put his professional mask on, and better than he'd done with Brass earlier. He needed to organise shift and his team, or they would start to wonder.

He turned to the foot of the bed and picked up the plastic bag containing her robe. He'd take it to the dry cleaners on his way back to the hospital in the morning. He also made a mental note to pack the toiletries, pyjamas and a few spare clothes she kept at his place. She would need them here. Then he turned back to her and bent down, gently pressing his lips to her forehead and keeping them there.

"I'll come back as soon as I can," he said, as finally he pulled back.

"Don't worry, Sir. She's in good hands."

The voice startled him, and he whipped his body back from the bed and around. A nurse he hadn't heard come in was watching him with a wistful smile on her face. Clipboard in hand, she moved over to the monitor and checked the readings she then diligently wrote down onto Sara's chart. After watching her work for a moment, he looked back at Sara. He was still reluctant to go and leave her alone in the hospital. What if the X-ray showed irreparable damage to her lungs, he couldn't help thinking? What if there were complications, decisions that needed taking?

"Have you left your contact details with the main desk?" she asked, clearly sensing his hesitation.

"Yes," he said categorically, "I have."

"Then, they'll now where to find you if there's any change to her condition."

Grissom sighed and nodded his head, then looked over at Sara again. There was nothing he could do to help her here, but there was a lot he could do at the lab, and he was sure she would want him to go back to work and find out how and why the fire got started. How badly was her apartment damaged, he wondered now? It had looked bad on TV, but how bad? Had she lost everything? And what about the victim, Sara's neighbour, who hadn't made it?

It was clear to him then what he needed to do. What Sara would want him to do. He took in a breath he let out slowly, then clutching her bagged robe to his chest finally pulled himself away.


	4. Chapter 4

Grissom slipped his T-shirt off over his head and splashed water on his face. He still felt unnerved and edgy. The smell of smoke was everywhere. It wouldn't leave him. It was on him, in his hair and clothes, but also in him, in his nose, his mouth, his mind. He almost felt sick with it. A shower would have been better, but he was already so late for shift. A quick wash would have to do.

He knew Catherine would have covered for him – the board showed Nick, Greg and Warrick all out some place or other – but he didn't want his tardiness to be a talking point at the lab and arouse suspicion. Hodges had been quite obvious, openly staring when he'd trudged past his lab earlier. Not that he owed anyone an explanation, least of all Hodges, but still.

He grabbed a fresh towel to dry himself with, then hurriedly unzipped his bag, taking out the spare set of clothes he kept in the trunk of his car, and got changed. Wearing paint-spattered jeans, sneakers and a UCLA T-shirt made him feel like Grissom the man on his day off, not Grissom supervisor of the night shift. He felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Tonight as well as his mask, he would need his armour.

"Any reasons you're not picking up your calls?"

Catherine's tone wasn't accusatory, but rather soft and teasing. Grissom frowned in puzzlement, then looked up sharply from buttoning up his shirt and reached for his cell from the shelf inside his locker. One quick look told him he'd missed plenty of calls, but thankfully none from the hospital. He turned the sound back on, then calmly placed the phone back on the shelf. You can do this, he thought. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I switched my phone to silent when I was at the hospital."

Catherine gave him a soft smile. "You've been with Sara all this time?"

Playing it cool, Grissom lowered his eyes back to his shirt. He was going to tuck it into his pants when he stopped. "You mind?" he asked, glancing up.

Catherine pulled a face that seemed to say, "It's not anything I've not seen before", but turned around nevertheless.

Grissom lowered his pants, then tucked his shirt in fully. "No," he replied to her original question while he finished doing himself up, and with a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was done Catherine turned back around. "I went round to her apartment building." David had been loading the fire victim's body into the coroner's truck when he'd arrived, and it had sadly brought everything home again.

Catherine's brow rose with surprise. "You went to the scene?"

"The scene is Sara's home, Catherine. Of course I went."

He had needed to see for himself the extent of the damage. The fire was out, but the heat emanating from the rubble was still substantial. Water and foam dripped everywhere. Despite his pleading he'd not been granted access – for obvious safety reasons – so he'd borrowed a helmet and had walked round the perimeter of the building. Sara's apartment was at the back, and from what he could see still standing.

How much could be salvaged was another matter. He knew from experience that whatever the fire hadn't destroyed, the water, foam and smoke would have. Sara's life was in that apartment, and it had broken his heart to see it gone up in smoke. How would he tell her? How would she react? How could he tell Sara that she'd lost everything?

Catherine was watching him with narrowed eyes, and he regretted his outburst. He'd have to keep his temper and anger in check, his worry too. He'd have to do better that that, he thought, or the cat would be out of the bag. To give himself time, he rummaged inside his bag for a clean pair of socks. Finding none, he picked up the dirty ones from the floor.

"I'm sorry, Cath," he said, mustering a sheepish smile. "I shouldn't have snapped. It's just…" He shrugged, faked a levity he was far from feeling to lighten the tone, "you know how I hate to be late to my own shifts."

Her face softening with a smile, Catherine accepted his apology with a nod of the head. "How's Sara?"

He sat down on the bench and sighed before pulling his socks on his feet. "Still the same, as far as I know." He made sure to keep his eyes averted to what he was doing to hide his feelings and kept his tone even as he spoke. "She came to briefly while I was there." He looked up, met Catherine's concerned gaze, "They're watching her closely for CO poisoning. They were taking her for X-rays to check on her lungs when I left. They won't know more until morning."

Catherine nodded gravely. "Mike Schaffer's investigating the fire―"

"I know. I spoke with him."

"So, what did he say?"

"Very little. He was having a good dig around, but the light wasn't good."

"Did he say the fire was started deliberately?"

"He's keeping an open mind."

Catherine let out a long-suffering breath. "Greg and I are meeting him tomorrow. He said he'd take us to Sara's apartment. See if there's anything of hers we can save, you know, clothes we can wash, books, her car keys, laptop…whatever we can find. I know of this good fire and smoke restoration company…" Her voice drifted off and she looked at Grissom with a tender smile.

Grissom nodded, then busied himself with his shoes to hide his emotion. He was deeply touched, deeply grateful for hers and Greg's care and consideration. Catherine was always so pragmatic, so good in a crisis. His eyes widened suddenly. What if Catherine and Greg found the stuff he kept at Sara's place during their search?

There wasn't much, and nothing of value, a few items of clothing and toiletries and Hank's stuff, but all the same. Would it be enough to give the game away, he wondered? And then he remembered. Sara kept a framed photograph of Hank and him by her bedside. She'd taken the photo when they'd gone hiking in Red Rock Canyon early on in their relationship. That day had meant so much to both of them.

He stood and began tidying his dirty clothes inside the bag, and the bag inside his locker. "What time did Schaffer say to meet him?"

"Noon. Why?"

"I'll meet you there." He picked up his cell from the shelf, closed his locker door and made for the door, hoping to put an end to the conversation. "I'll be in my office catching up on paperwork if you need me."

He was rounding the corner into his office when he checked his phone again and realised he'd missed another text from his mother. _I hope your friend is okay_, he read. _I saw the fire on the news. It looked bad. Hank is fine but unsettled._ _And no, he doesn't need to pee. How are you doing?_

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Could Hank have sensed something was wrong with Sara, he wondered? He felt bad for forgetting to text his mother back after he'd left the hospital. He checked the time; 11.30 pm, but he knew Betty would still be awake, waiting for news. He pressed reply and composed his message. His texting was slow, but right then it was the only way he could put her mind at rest.

_Sorry I didn't reply sooner. Thank you for your concern. Sara is doing okay. She's stable. I'll go visit her tomorrow after shift before I come pick up Hank. _He paused, then added, _Sleep well, _before he pressed send.

The lack of assignment slips on his desk was a relief, and he reached for the top file on his pile. Maybe losing himself in mindless paperwork would take his mind off thinking and worrying about Sara. It didn't work. After an hour he went round the lab to do his checks, then returned to more paperwork, long overdue staff evaluations this time. When some time later his phone rang he jumped on it, only to see _Morgue_ flash on the screen. He connected the call.

"Hi, Grissom," David Phillips said. "You said to call when the victim from the fire was ready? Well, she is."

Grissom was already on his feet. "I'm on my way."

He pocketed his cell and made his way to the morgue. There, he put on a blue lab coat and joined David at the stainless steel table. The female body exhibited full thickness burns with brown leathery skin and lay in a boxer-like body posture of flexed elbows and knees and clenched fists. It looked like she was shielding her face from an attacker, but Grissom knew better than to infer that.

Heat had caused for her body tissues and muscle to shrink due to dehydration. The smell of burnt flesh was overpowering, and it took all his resolve and years of experience not to walk out of the room. All he kept thinking as he stared at the body was that it could be Sara lying there instead of her neighbour. He took a breath and tried hard to put that picture out of his mind.

"Any news on Sara?" David asked, his concern undisguised, as he glanced toward Grissom.

Grissom gave his standard answer, the same he'd first given Catherine and everyone else that had asked since.

Looking grave, David nodded his head then fell silent, presumably thinking about Sara and the ordeal she'd just been through. "Are they watching for CO and cyanide poisoning?" he asked, "I heard there was gasoline at the scene too. Sometimes reactions are delayed."

"I know," Grissom replied quietly, "And they are."

David gave another nod, seemingly appeased by Grissom's replies.

"No Doc tonight?" Grissom asked, hoping that would be clue enough to get back to the topic at hand. He slipped his glasses on and looked at the body in more detail.

"He's off. He's taken Judith to see Céline. I―I haven't told him about the fire. I didn't want to spoil his…evening."

His lips twisting in a sardonic smile, Grissom looked up at David over the top of his glasses.

David's smile was wide and unabashed. "I know. I know. It's all my fault. But believe me, she's well worth it." He averted his eyes briefly, hesitantly, before he raised them again and stared at Grissom unwaveringly. "You ought to go. The show's run is ending in December. Take a lady friend with you. As I said, it's well worth it."

Could David have guessed, he wondered suddenly? Was the use of 'lady friend' a subtle way for David to let him know he knew? Grissom quickly lowered his eyes back to the body. "I'll take your word for it, David," he said, sternly enough to get David to look sheepish and refocus on the body. "So, what can you tell me?"

"The vic should be thirty-five-year-old Heather Clarke," David replied after a pause. "Visual positive ID will be hard to confirm due to the extent of the burns so I'll try to extract some DNA – maybe from the teeth, or bone marrow. Total body radiographs showed nothing I wouldn't expect in the circumstance."

"COD?" Death due to thermal injuries – smoke inhalation, burns or cardiac arrest when the pain got too much – was the obvious choice, but it wouldn't be the first time a fire had been started to cover up something more sinister.

David glanced at Grissom with surprise. "Any reasons to think the fire didn't kill her?"

"Aside from gasoline present at the scene, no," Grissom replied rather curtly.

David stared at Grissom with a frown before he averted his eyes back to the body. "I'll make sure to be thorough," he said in an even tone, and Grissom regretted his shortness. "From what I heard, you know, when we were recovering the body," David went on quietly, "fire department thought the fire had started in the vic's apartment kitchen. Gas cooker was on, burnt pan on the stove. The vic was found on the floor near the front door."

Grissom looked up, suddenly interested. Could the fire have started accidentally after all?"

"That's all I heard, I'm afraid," David added with an apologetic lift of his shoulder, "We didn't hang about."

Grissom nodded.

"I cut off what clothing I could from the body. It's in the bag, on the table."

Grissom looked over to where David was indicating. "Thank you. I'll take it up to Trace." He removed his glasses and turned back to David. "Could you email me copies of the photos you took at the scene?"

David frowned. "I emailed them to you as soon as I uploaded them on the computer."

"Oh."

"Didn't you get them?"

Grissom's mouth open then shut hesitantly. "I must have done. I―I haven't checked my email in a while." To cover his lapse, he moved over to the table and picked up the evidence bag to take to Trace.

There was a pause. "I saw her car in the lot," David then said in a soft voice. "It was intact, so that's something."

It would seem Sara was on David's mind too. With a sigh, Grissom turned back to the assistant coroner and nodded his head, even tried a smile. "Thanks, David."

As soon as he was back in his office, Grissom printed the pictures David had emailed him and studied them at length. Some showed close-ups of the victim's body, others included what was left of the apartment surrounding it, but none encompassed the kitchen or gave any clues as to explain what had happened. Homicide, or accidental death? Schaffer was keeping an open mind, and so was he.

Grissom was packing away for the night, eager to leave so he could pop by the hospital before he went to his mother to fetch Hank, when he heard a knock on his door. Nick, Warrick and Greg stepped into his office. Immediately Grissom's gaze zoomed in on the clear plastic bag Greg was holding.

"Griss, we're going to Frank's for breakfast," Nick said. "Want to come?"

Grissom paused. "I―I can't. I've somewhere to be." And then as an afterthought, "But thank you."

"Sure?" Warrick tried.

Mustering a smile, Grissom nodded his head. "I'm…expected at my mother's, but some other time maybe."

"All right."

The trio was turning on their heels when Grissom called, "Greg, can I have a word?"

Greg hesitated, but stopped in his tracks. "You go on ahead," he told Nick and Warrick who turned around, "I'll meet you there."

"What's this?" Grissom asked, keeping his tone neutral as he motioned toward the bag in Greg's hand. "If it's evidence…"

"Oh, no," Greg said, lifting the bag up in Grissom's eye line. "It's Sara's boot. Well, I think it is anyway. I found it in her car lot, last night." His eyes lowered to the bag. "I―I kept it for her. Thought I'd clean it up. I know there's only one, but…" His voice choked up, then faded and he stopped talking.

Grissom's eyes averted. Once again, Greg's consideration toward Sara touched him deeply. "You know what, Greg?" he found himself saying, and the young CSI looked up. "I'm pretty sure I remember seeing a similar boot at the hospital, bagged at the end of her bed in the ER."

Greg's face lit up. "Thanks Grissom. Nick and I are going to visit her this afternoon; I'll pick it up then. Warrick called Tina who checked for us. She's had a good night apparently. Well, all things considered."

Grissom nodded. He knew all that of course, he'd rung the hospital himself, but it was nice of Greg to share what he knew with him. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you," he said quietly.

Greg watched Grissom with surprise while the latter stared back, confident his mask was firmly in place.

"Enjoy your breakfast," he then said, and stepped round his desk, headed out.

All in all he felt he'd given quite a good performance.


	5. Chapter 5

Grissom pushed the door open and went in, directly making his way to Sara's bedside. The nurse at the station had warned him she'd still be sleeping, and she was, much to his disappointment. The head of the bed was raised in a thirty degree angle, presumably to facilitate breathing. Machines still helped control that, her fluid intake and medication too, but he was pleased to see that she had regained some colour.

This time he didn't hesitate and immediately leaned down for a kiss on the forehead. As they had the previous night, his lips lingered on her skin, but now he took in a long satisfying breath and filled himself with her scent. She had been cleaned up and helped into a hospital gown, the smell of smoke gone now, replaced by good old antiseptic soap.

He didn't know how quickly Sara would be allowed up on her feet and able to take a shower, but just in case he'd swung by his condo on the way over to collect the few clothes and toiletries she kept there, hurriedly packing everything into a travel bag. She had a habit of walking barefoot around the house, but he'd found a pair of espadrilles in the closet and had brought those too.

As instructed, he set the bag on the overbed table pushed against the wall. He'd promised the nurse he wouldn't stay long, and he intended to keep his word. Regardless he pulled up a chair and picked up her good hand, squeezing it softly as he sat down. He'd just be a minute. Just long enough to say hello, even if she didn't wake up.

Closing his eyes, he let out a long, tired breath, and tried to empty his mind of thoughts and worries. He'd been sitting by her side, resting, for a few minutes when he felt Sara's hand move inside his. A smile forming on his lips, he looked up and opened his eyes. She was watching him.

"Hey," he said softly, his smile widening with pleasure as he pushed to his feet.

Sara blinked, then tried to talk, but he couldn't make out what she said. Weakly, she pulled her hand out of his and lifted it to her face, as if wanting to pull the breathing mask off her mouth.

"No," he said, his hand moving to still hers. "You must keep it on."

Sara lowered her hand back down. "Tired," she said between two breaths.

"It's normal you should feel tired," he replied softly. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

She shook her head weakly. "You," she said, and paused. "You look tired."

"Don't you worry about me," he said, a smile of disbelief twisting his mouth. "I'm fine."

Sara started at him at length, her eyes soft and dreamy, and he reached up to stroke her face. "When can I go home?" she asked, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch. Her words were low, raspy whispers through the mask but he made them out all right.

Her customary impatience brought his smile back. "Not for a few days," he replied softly, before it struck him what exactly she'd meant by home. His smile faded. With a swallow, he flicked his gaze away, then took in a breath and met her questioning eyes. "I'm sorry, love," he said, knowing hiding the truth from her would serve no purpose, "but it looks like the fire did a lot of damage to the front of the building, I'm afraid – structural damage. The back doesn't look as bad, but it's hard to tell from the outside. I'm going over later, see what it's really like." See what I can salvage, he thought, but didn't say. "I'm sorry."

Sara nodded her head, then leaned it back against the pillow and looked away but not before he noticed the tears shimmering in her eyes.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It's going to be okay," he said, in a fake bright voice that faded piteously. "You can come stay with me and Hank." He stroked his hand down the side of her face. "Honey, all that matters is that you made it out alive."

Her head snapped round toward him, tearful eyes suddenly wide and probing, and he immediately regretted his turn of phrase. She knew him too well. Still, he wouldn't lie to her. He tried to conceal his growing emotion, but it came through nevertheless in his voice and in his eyes.

"There was one fatality," he said, and cleared his throat, "a woman who lived on the ground floor. Apartment 1B."

Sara's eyes lost their focus, then shut, releasing a tear that slipped down to her nose, and he knew that just like he had done when Brass had told him the news she was racking her brain for a face or a name. Or maybe she was just thinking that she was lucky she'd made it out alive when her neighbour hadn't. With a sigh, he pulled the chair up closer to the bed and took up his seat again.

"It looks like a kitchen fire," he said in a low voice, and she refocused her attention on him, "a tragic accident. I'm meeting with the fire investigator later. We'll see what he's got to say."

Sara reached out her hand over toward him, and hoping she couldn't see the shine of tears in his eyes he sat forward in the chair and took it. "You okay?" she asked through the mask.

"Sure," he replied, forcing a smile as he met her gaze. Her eyes became probing, pleading, seeing straight through him, and with a long fraught sigh he dropped the pretence. His eyes filled again. He pinched his lips, lowered his gaze to their joined hands. "A little shaken," he admitted finally in a wobbly voice, and glanced up. "You scared me, Sara. When Brass called me, I…" his words died, and he brought their hands up to his face. "I thought I'd lost you."

Sara nodded. Then she turned her hand in his and brushed it to his face. "But you didn't," her eyes said, and slowly he nodded his head. They stared at each other for a moment without speaking before Sara asked, "You got to finish your painting?"

Grissom frowned and, when it dawned on him what she'd said, burst out laughing. "Yes, I did. Just about. And I did a good job of it too, if I may say so."

Sara's gaze was soft and loving. "You got paint in your hair."

Before Grissom could reply, the door opened. Startled, he let go of Sara's hand and quickly pushed to his feet. Greg had said he and Nick would visit in the afternoon, but he wouldn't put it past Catherine to talk her way into the room outside visiting hours. Sara slowly turned her head toward the door, and he waited a beat before doing the same. A doctor in a white blouse was standing at the end of the bed, watching them. He was holding charts and a large white envelope.

"It's not against hospital policy to hold hands," he said pleasantly, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "In fact, I positively encourage it – inside visiting hours of course."

Grissom and Sara shared a look. "I'm sorry," Grissom said apologetically. "It's only a short visit. I―I just…" he turned toward Sara and smiled tenderly, "I just…" needed to see her, he almost said, but instead settled for, "dropped off some stuff."

The doctor nodded, then without skipping a beat turned to Sara. "Sara, do you remember me?"

Sara shook her head.

"That's all right. You were pretty out of it when we met. I'm Doctor Alvarez, specialist in respiratory medicine. I'm glad to see you awake and alert. How's your chest feeling this morning?"

"It's tight, heavy," Sara replied through the mask, and paused to take a breath. "But better."

"Painful?"

After hesitating briefly, Sara gave her head a shake.

"Sure?"

Sara looked at Grissom from the corner of her eyes. "A little," she admitted.

"Show me."

Without looking at Grissom, Sara lifted her hand and rubbed the left side of her chest.

"Any problems with mental acuity," the doctor then asked Grissom.

Grissom frowned. "No," he replied, turning to smile at Sara. "She's all there."

"Good." The doctor nodded, wrote something down on his chart. Then he checked the readings on the monitor, the pulse oximeter and nonrebreather mask, made more notes.

"What did the X-ray show?" Grissom asked.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Doctor Alvarez replied, looking over his shoulder. "Which in itself doesn't mean much. We'll do a repeat test tomorrow to determine if delayed lung injury is occurring. I'm happy with the way Sara is responding to treatment so far."

"And the pain in her chest?"

The doctor shrugged. "There could be a number of reasons. We'll watch her, see if it gets worse."

"Pulmonary oedema?" Grissom asked.

Doctor Alvarez' eyes moved over to Sara who was following the conversation with intent. "It's a common complication of inhalation injuries, but we're looking out for it."

"And her blood tests? Any signs of CO poisoning?"

Dr Alvarez sighed. "Carboxyhaemoglobin levels came back 20 percent. But that was last night. As I said, so far Sara is responding well to the standard oxygen therapy, so we'll carry on as we've been doing."

Grissom nodded his head and turned toward Sara. He reached for her hand and squeezed it warmly.

"Alright," the doctor said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "Just time to say goodbye and I want you out of here."

Grissom nodded, then turned back to Sara and smiled sheepishly.

"Sara," Doctor Alvarez went on, "I'll come back shortly. We'll get you sitting up and moving and do a few tests, all right?"

Sara gave a nod and the doctor turned on his heels, but not before he'd given Grissom a meaningful look.

"The guys said they'd come this afternoon," Grissom said, when the door had closed on the doctor. "They've…been thinking of you. A lot. Well, everyone at the lab has, and…so I'm going to make myself scarce and come back when the coast is clear. Okay?"

Sara watched him at length before she nodded her head quietly, resignedly. "Tell Hank I miss him."

Grissom brought his hand up to her face and cupped her cheek. "It won't be long until you come out."

Sara nodded her head. She was looking tired now, tired and sad. He was loath to leave her again, but what choice did he have?

"I'll come back when I can," he said, and kissed her cheek.

When he got to his mother, Hank was waiting behind the door, yelping and whining. He rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. Hank rushed to him, his tail beating wildly as he let out a happy bark, and crouching down Grissom took a moment to return the dog's affectionate welcome.

"Sara's okay," he told him, laughing when Hank licked his face. "She misses you too."

When he straightened back up, Betty was waiting, watching him intently with a thoughtful expression on her face. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and she waved him in.

"I'm not staying," he signed as he took a step over the threshold, and sighed on noticing she'd set breakfast for one on the table.

"I thought I'd make you breakfast," Betty signed, looking somewhat discomfited. "When's the last time you ate?"

Grissom pulled a face and lifted his hands to reply. "A late breakfast with Sara the previous day," he almost signed, but then thought better of it. His shrug was all the answer his mother needed to take his arm and pull him fully into the room. He closed the door behind him, then toed off his shoes and with Hank close on his heels followed his mother to the kitchen.

"Thanks for minding Hank," he signed before reaching his hand down to pet Hank.

Betty batted her hand in front of her, dismissing his words of thanks. Then gratefully accepting the cup of coffee she thrust into his hands, Grissom took a seat at the table and watched as she turned the heat on under a skillet at the ready on the stove and reached into the fridge. Bacon and eggs came out, and suddenly he felt very hungry indeed.

"How's Sara?" Betty signed, as he took a cautious first sip of his coffee.

After setting his cup down, Grissom raised his hands. "She was awake and doing much better. She's going to have to stay into hospital for a few days for monitoring, but so far so good."

Betty's wide smile spoke volume as to what she thought. She patted his shoulder warmly, then after placing rashers of bacon into the skillet turned to ask if Sara's family was with her. Grissom's eyes lowered uncertainly, before he decided to be honest with her. He wasn't ready to tell his mother about the relationship yet, but he wouldn't lie about it if she asked. Betty put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and sat down at the table across from him.

"Her father passed away," he signed at last, "And she and her mother are estranged."

Betty's expression saddened before it brightened up again. "Would you like me to sit with her while you rest? That way she wouldn't be alone. I don't mind," she added, giving her son a bright smile. "On the contrary, I'd like to meet her. In fact, I'd like to meet all your friends."

Grissom's mouth opened, then shut, and he lowered his gaze. And how would that work, he wondered? The smell of bacon filled the room, titillating his nostrils. Nose twitching, Hank stood up and shook himself before moving to sit in front of the stove. Picking up his cup, Grissom took a sip of coffee to disguise his surprise – or was it unease? – at his mother's offer and then set his cup back down slowly.

"Thank you," he signed slowly, and groped for his next words. "It's very…thoughtful of you. But Sara won't be alone. She has a lot of friends desperate to see her."

Betty nodded. Her eyes were soft and knowing. "And she has you?"

He smiled. "Yes," he admitted finally. "She has me."

Betty's face lit up with pleasure as she stared at him, seemingly waiting for him to continue, but the bacon was sizzling on the stove and Grissom motioned towards it. Acknowledging his relationship with Sara was one thing, going into detail another. As for the two of them meeting, he couldn't imagine it. A happy twinkle in her eyes, Betty stood up and tended to his and Hank's breakfast.

Grissom pulled up in the car lot of Sara's apartment building at exactly 11.45 am and parked next to her Prius. He thought he'd be early, and he was, but evidently not early enough. Catherine and Greg's cars were already there, as was Schaffer's fire investigation truck. With a sigh, he killed the engine, got out and made a mental note to move the Prius to a safer location. Quickly he opened the trunk and took out the empty cardboard box and sports bag he'd brought along.

He turned toward the building and sighed. In the daylight, it looked so much worse than it had the night before. The sun shone high and bright overhead, further enhancing its stark desolation. Most of the windows were dark holes in a blackened shell. More of the roof had collapsed, or been torn down before it did. Charred furniture, appliances and furnishings lay in a haphazard pile, discarded during the damping down efforts.

Juggling the box and bag, he locked the car and hurried over to the main entrance. Catherine and Mike Schaffer stood there in matching hard hats, deep in conversation. His heart sank.

Greg was nowhere to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

As Grissom closed the distance, Catherine and Schaffer stopped talking and turned toward him. "Oh, good," Catherine said, as Grissom and Schaffer exchanged nods of greeting, "You came prepared."

Grissom glanced down at the box under his arm and nodded. "Where's Greg?" he asked, keeping his tone business-like.

"He's gone on up ahead," Catherine replied. "He was already waiting when I got here. He couldn't wait to go up, see how bad the damage is. I told him we'd do the work bit and then meet him there."

Keeping his feelings of frustration under wraps, Grissom gave a nod. "You been here long?" he asked, vainly trying to ascertain how much of the apartment Greg was likely to have searched already.

"Five minutes?"

Grissom's eyes averted to the entrance lobby beyond Catherine as he considered his options. Suddenly he felt very tired, physically tired because he hadn't slept a wink in twenty-four hours, but also emotionally exhausted. All this pretence and having to watch his step every minute of the day was draining. He just wanted for this fire never to have started. He just wanted for everything to be like it was before. He just wanted to be home with Sara, share breakfast, and then take Hank on a leisurely walk around the park before going to bed.

"You okay?" Catherine asked.

Grissom refocused his eyes on her. "Yeah. I'm just tired."

Catherine offered him a warm smile. "Mike was telling me that Sara's apartment suffered smoke and water damage, but that the fire missed most of it. Hopefully, there's plenty we can recover for her."

Grissom nodded, turned to Schaffer. "Will the building need to be knocked down?"

"It's not for me to say," Schaffer replied, "but from experience I'd say yes."

Grissom's experience sadly told him the same thing.

"I've established how the fire got started," Schaffer said. "Want to come and take a look?"

Normally Grissom would have been there like a shot, but today he hesitated. His eyes flicked over to the inside the building again before he grudgingly nodded his head at Schaffer. If Greg had found the framed photograph of him and Hank, he thought, then so be it.

"You brought a hat?" Schaffer asked and when Grissom shook his head offered his. "And watch your step," he added as the trio made their way inside the lobby.

Grissom set the cardboard box down on the ground and the sports bag inside it and placed the hat on his head. Then with a forlorn look in the direction of the staircase he followed Schaffer and Catherine through the lobby, past the elevator and half way down the corridor to apartment 1B. The floor was still damp underfoot, charred debris littering their path. On either side of the corridor doors were open wide, or off their hinges, the apartments' interiors burnt and blackened messes.

The victim's apartment was the same as Sara's, but facing the opposite way. Grissom stopped in the middle of the living space and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree swivel on his heels, taking in the whole of the room. He turned around and positioned the victim just as David Phillips' scene photos had captured her, lying prone behind the door, trying to escape what must have been a blazing inferno.

Grissom looked up and scanned his gaze around. Catherine and Schaffer stood in what used to be the kitchen and Grissom carefully picked his way over. The fire there had burnt a hole through the ceiling, exposing burnt-out rafters, pipes and electrical cables which hung limply at head height. Judging by the tell-tale hourglass burn pattern on the wall, Grissom would guess he was staring at the point of origin.

"The fire started here," Schaffer said, needlessly, as the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder in the small kitchen. "Something that was cooking on the stove caught fire. The fire spread to the hood, up to the ceiling, burning everything in its path and quickly spreading to the rest of the apartment and then the apartment above."

Grissom's eyes narrowed distrustfully."Did the victim call 911?"

"No. The man in apartment 1A did. The call was logged in at 18.04."

Grissom's puzzlement intensified. "Any evidence the vic tried to put the fire out herself?"

Schaffer shook his head. "There's no evidence she did, but it doesn't mean she didn't. Why do you ask?"

Grissom shrugged. "I find it strange, that's all. I mean, all the apartments are fitted with standard smoke detectors. It would have gone off, alerting the victim even before the pan fully caught fire. She would have had time to call 911."

"Unless she was in the shower," Catherine chipped in, "Or taking a nap. Just like Sara was."

_Or incapacitated in some way_, Grissom reasoned. Drunk? Drugged? The autopsy would tell them.

"The victim was found by the door," Schaffer said. "Presumably the fire or smoke overcame her before she could do anything, let along escape."

Grissom's twist of the mouth was sceptical. "I was told you found gasoline at the scene, and yet I don't see any evidence of it."

"That's because the two two-gallon plastic canisters we recovered were found in the apartment directly above."

Grissom looked up abruptly and stared through the hole._ That's the apartment across the landing from Sara's_, he thought with a frown. _No wonder she was overcome by smoke so quickly._

"I think they were just being stored there," Schaffer went on, "and caught fire independently. After that, the blaze just took hold and spread very rapidly."

Grissom sighed. "So you're ruling out arson."

"I'm not ruling out anything. I'm just telling you my findings as they are now. It's going to take a few weeks for all the tests to come back."

Grissom nodded, shared a look with Catherine. "Thanks, Mike," Catherine said, patting her hand to Schaffer's arm. "I appreciate the courtesy."

Schaffer showed her a row of white pearly teeth. "Don't mention it."

Catherine paused, glanced at Grissom meaningfully and the latter took his cue. It was time to see what Greg was up to. He retraced his steps to the lobby, picked up his box and bag and trudged his way up to the next floor. As he reached the door to the landing he stopped and looked around; this must be where Sara had made it to before she'd collapsed and was rescued.

Pushing his pain and heartache aside, he opened the door and followed in reverse the escape route Sara would have taken. The noxious effect of the smoke would be filling her airways and poisoning her lungs, altering her senses and making her dizzy and confused. She would have been coughing and choking as she fought for every shallow breath she took. Did she think she was going to die?

"Oh, if only I'd stayed with her rather than gone to my mother's," he cursed silently, "maybe now she wouldn't be lying in that hospital bed."

Sara's apartment door was open wide, the windows too, the light breeze blowing against the open drapes. Soot particles swirled in the shaft of sunlight. The bedroom door was closed. The whole of the living space and what he could see of the kitchen was covered in an oily greyish residue, but was otherwise untouched by the fire itself. Grissom's gaze settled on Greg, crouched down level with Sara's desk.

Totally engrossed on his study of Sara's police scanner, the young CSI didn't hear Grissom come in. Next to the scanner was Sara's closed laptop and Grissom was relieved to see it intact. Wearing latex gloves and CSI coveralls Greg was certainly looking the part, and Grissom wondered whether he'd already put his observation skills to good use and uncovered his relationship with Sara.

Greg straightened up suddenly and turned toward him. "It's her scanner," he stated sadly.

Grissom nodded, and watched as Greg carefully picked the scanner up and placed it in a cardboard box on the floor by his feet. He didn't have the heart to tell the young CSI that Sara didn't listen to it any more. Then Greg packed the laptop, carefully opened the desk drawer, finding the charger cable which he stowed in the box too.

"It's heart-breaking, isn't it?" Greg said, and too choked up for words Grissom could only nod his head in reply. Quickly, he flicked his gaze away. "What do you think she's going to want recovering first?" Greg then asked.

"I don't know," Grissom said, finding his voice at last. Pursing his face, he nodded at the bookcase behind Greg. Some of her books were old and battered but all were well read and very much treasured. "You could go through her books, maybe?"

Greg nodded his head and turned on his heels. "Good idea."

A feeling of relief washed over Grissom at the fact that Greg was acting as normal, and not as though he'd found the compromising photograph. "I'm going to look for her purse," he said. "Her ID, phone and car keys should be in it. I thought we could move her car to the lab."

Greg turned to motion over toward the counter. "It's over there. I already checked. Everything's in it."

Grissom nodded, moved over to the counter and after putting on latex gloves put the purse in his cardboard box. Next to the purse lay the previous day's newspaper, neatly folded at the crossword page. It too was covered in soot and smoke residue, but if you looked closely enough you could clearly make out his careful lettering. Would Greg have noticed, he wondered? Discreetly so as not to arouse suspicion, he stowed the paper into the box too. Bedroom next, he thought.

"Where's Catherine?" Greg asked.

"Talking to Schaffer," Grissom answered.

"I thought she could do the bedroom, you know? Look through Sara's clothes and things. She's a woman; she'll know what to get."

A muscle twitched in Grissom's jaw. "Have you been in?" he found himself asking in a voice carefully devoid of any expression.

"I just took a peek. Sara must have closed the door after her when she got up. Smoke damage isn't half as bad in there."

Grissom headed to the bedroom. He thought about, but didn't close the bedroom door after him lest he aroused suspicion. Greg was right; the bedroom had been spared. The bed was unmade, and Grissom had to resist the temptation to pull the covers over it. His gaze zoomed in on the bedside table, a frown forming on his face at the absence of the photograph. He scanned quick eyes over the room, in case Sara had moved the frame to different location, but came up blank.

Swiftly he covered the distance to the bedside table and checked all around and behind it. Maybe Sara had knocked it over when she'd made her escape, but Grissom didn't find it. He searched his brain for the last time he'd actually seen the frame in situ, but again came up blank. _Come on_, he scolded himself, _this isn't like you. Focus._

He moved over to the chest of drawers and opened the left-hand side drawer, _his_ drawer, and after checking the coast was clear hurriedly removed the few items of clothing he kept there – one pair of pyjama bottoms, underpants, socks, a T-shirt – throwing everything in the bag. Next he went to the adjoining bathroom and packed up his shaving cream and razor, his toothbrush and man's shampoo.

When he was done, he returned to the bedroom and looked around, and satisfied he'd erased all evidence of his ever having stayed there set about packing some of Sara's clothes and toiletries, her hairdryer…things she'd need, he reckoned, all the while making sure he covered his stuff with hers in the bag. Then he remembered her gun and checked the shelf above the clothes rail in the built-in closet.

Carefully he picked up the Timberland shoe box and lowered it. Her gun was inside, wrapped in a rag, exactly as she'd stowed it. Grissom put the box inside his bigger one and returned to the closet.

"Where's Grissom?" he heard Catherine ask next door.

"In the bedroom."

Swiftly, Grissom grabbed the second shoe box Sara kept at the back of the shelf and also packed it away. Catherine crossed the threshold, obscuring the room, hence making her presence known. Grissom carefully schooled his features into a neutral expression.

"How are you getting on?" she asked, when he looked up and over at her.

Grissom shrugged. "There's just so much. I should have brought more boxes."

Without a word, Catherine turned on her heels, only to reappear a minute later with a roll of black trash bags. "We can use these," she said, tearing a bag from the roll and handing it to Grissom. "Do you know anything about Sara having a boyfriend?" she then asked.

Grissom was trying to open the trash bag and thankfully not looking at Catherine. He made sure his mask was on before he glanced up. "No," he replied, and shrugged a casual shoulder. "I―I…what makes you say that?"

Catherine straightened her hard hat. "Just…well, that there's two lots of everything on the draining board."

Grissom kicked himself at the oversight. "Greg might know," he said, coolly enough. "Have you asked him?"

"He doesn't," Catherine replied categorically. "Says Sara never mentioned anyone."

"Ah."

"Yeah, well, you can't fool me."

"Evidently not," Grissom muttered as he turned back to the closet.

"Two plates mean she had a man round for breakfast."

"Maybe just a friend," Grissom tried, mustering as casual a tone as he could, and crouching down began to fill the trash bag with Sara's shoes and boots.

"I mean, he should be told, right?"

Grissom's brow rose. _Maybe he already knows._

"Maybe I should look through her phone," Catherine then said. "Greg said you had her purse?"

Grissom paused, kept his back to her as he spoke. "It's in the box there, but…" he stopped, turned to look over his shoulder, "I don't think Sara would appreciate us poking around her stuff anymore than we're already doing, do you? I'm sure that…if Sara does have a boyfriend he'd have heard about the fire on the news."

Catherine pulled a face, then scanned her eyes over the room and walked over to the bedside table, while Grissom turned back to his task. "There's a paper crane in the drawer in the bedside table," she said after a beat. "I wonder if he gave it to her."

Grissom snapped his head up and swallowed. _As a matter of fact he did_, he thought, but didn't say it aloud.

"Packet of condom," Catherine went on, as if doing a running commentary at a crime scene, "Box of tissues, Advil, Vaseline, pocket edition of _To Kill a Mockingbird…"_

_That's mine actually._

"Phone charger, iPod. I'll put all that in your box," Catherine said.

_The condoms too_, he wondered? Slowly, he closed his eyes and counted to ten before he turned. Maybe he'd got away with it after all.

A half-hour later and carrying their loot, the trio left Sara's apartment. Grissom used the car keys he'd found in her purse to unlock the Prius and they stowed all the bags and boxes they'd filled in there. _A trunkful_, he thought, _not much to show for someone's life and work._ "I'm going to drive the car to CSI," he said. "It'll be safer in the lot there. I'll come back for mine later."

"I'll follow you," Catherine said, "Give you a ride back."

Grissom nodded his thanks, and Catherine walked off toward her car. He was about to shut the trunk when Greg spoke.

"You look after her, Grissom," he said quietly. "She's special."

Grissom looked up and stared at Greg in astonishment. Unable to hold Greg's gaze and keep his mask on, he averted his eyes to the trunk, only then noticing the wooden picture frame slotted safely between two large textbooks in the box Greg had filled. Grissom's eyes flicked back up hesitantly, and he stared at Greg with newfound respect.

"I know," he replied in a nod, the words catching in his throat. "And I will."

Grissom's phone chose this moment to beep. With a frown, Grissom retrieved it from his jacket pocket and opened the text. A chill ran through him as he read the brief message.

"Grissom, what's wrong?" Greg asked. "Is it Sara?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Grissom, what's wrong?" Greg asked. "Is it Sara?"

"No," Grissom said, glancing up from his phone. "It's from Al. Al Robbins." He swallowed, gave his head a shake. Why had the coroner's news unnerved him so much? After all, Robbins' findings only confirmed what he'd feared when he'd looked at the victim's apartment. "The preliminary autopsy findings show that Heather Clarke's fire-related injuries were inflicted post-mortem."

Greg's gaze narrowed. "Sara's neighbour?"

Putting his phone away, Grissom nodded then snapped his head round toward the lot, checking to see whether Schaffer's investigation truck was still there. It was. Would knowing that the victim was already dead when the fire started change the fire investigator's findings? It shouldn't, and yet. There was something about the guy that troubled him, and it wasn't just the leering way he looked at Catherine.

"Does he have any idea on COD?" Greg asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Grissom refocused. "He didn't say."

"It's not the first time a fire would have been started to cover a homicide," Greg stated.

"I know," Grissom said, and shut the trunk of Sara's car. "Or maybe the victim died of natural causes, or a drug overdose. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He was playing devil's advocate, and he knew it.

"Gil!" Catherine shouted over to him. "What's the holdup?"

Grissom turned toward Catherine who, looking as impatient as she'd sounded, was leaning out of her car. She slipped her sunglasses up to the top of her head and fixed him with a quizzical look.

"I'm coming," he called back, and walked round to the driver's side door. Pausing suddenly, he turned to Greg still standing at the same spot. "Not one word of this to Sara, all right?" Grissom told him, "Not until we know more. I don't want to distress her any more than she already is."

Greg had a moment's hesitation before he nodded his head.

Grissom opened the car door and made to go in but stopped. He flicked his gaze back up to Greg hesitantly. "Tell Sara I…" he sighed, "I'll be round later – when it's not so busy."

Greg nodded. "I will."

"Oh, and Greg," he added quietly, holding Greg's gaze, "Thank you."

Greg gave him a smile and a nod, then made for his own car. The horn of a car sounded, impatiently, reminding Grissom Catherine was still waiting. Cursing under his breath, he turned the engine on and fastened his seatbelt, then put the car in reverse and turned to look over his shoulder, ready to back of the space. Hank's blanket on the backseat caught his eye and he sighed.

After dropping Sara's car off at the lab, he really should go home and catch some sleep before he headed to the hospital, but Doc's text played on his mind. He would pay him a visit, put his mind at rest, _then_ go home. He patted his pocket for his cell, found it and called Catherine.

"Yo!" she replied, "What's taking you so long?"

"I was thinking I might stay at the lab after I drop Sara's car off, so thank you, but you can go home, catch up on some sleep while you can."

There was a pause. "That's what you should be doing too. You look awful."

Grissom chuckled. "Well, thank you."

"You know what I mean," Catherine said, sounding contrite.

He sighed. "I just got a text from doc. It appears that the vic was dead before the fire started. I'm going to go see him, see if he's narrowed down COD."

"Then I'm coming with."

He knew there would be no point arguing with her, so without another word he disconnected the call and finally set off. A half-hour later, they were pushing the double doors to the morgue, both reaching for matching blue lab coats as they went in and slipping them on. Robbins looked up from the body spread open on the table, put his scalpel down and lowered his glasses to his chest.

"Gil," Robbins said pleasantly, and yet showing his surprise, "I didn't expect to see you. Or you, Catherine. I thought you'd be catching up on sleep, which is why I texted."

"We were at Sara's place," Grissom said, moving to stand on the other side of the autopsy table from Robbins.

"Packing her stuff," Catherine added, joining him. "Well, what we could."

Robbins' nod was solemn. "Is there much damage? I mean, I saw the footage on the news but…" His words trailed off. "Will she be able to move back in, I mean, in time?"

"Probably not," Grissom said, more abruptly that he intended, and ready to put an end to the topic of conversation in hand averted his gaze to the body on the table.

"You send her my love when you see her, all right?" Robbins said softly.

Grissom's eyes came up sharply, as he wondered whether Doc's message was loaded, but Robbins was looking at Catherine, and Grissom realised his well-meaning words had been directed at her.

Catherine smiled and nodded her head. "I will. I'm hoping to be able to go visit her later."

_When later exactly?_ Grissom wondered despondently. At this rate, would there ever be a time when Sara would be free of visitors, so he could spend a little time with her too? Would he be able to talk his way into her room outside visiting hours twice in a row?

"Where's David?" he asked.

"He's gone home," Robbins replied, refocusing on Grissom as he slipped his glasses back on. "So, I take it since you've come all this way you want to know what I've got." And without waiting for a reply, "I can't find any evidence that our victim was alive and breathing during the fire. There's no soot or burning within the lungs, bronchial tubes and throat. Level of CO in tissue is nil." He flicked his eyes over to Catherine and then back to Grissom. "I expect CO blood levels to come back nil too."

Grissom thought as much. "So the fire didn't kill her," he surmised. "What did?"

"Well, that's trickier. David took and sent samples of blood to tox to test for alcohol and drug levels, but they'll take a few days to come back."

"Any marks of violence on the body?" Catherine asked.

"I can't see any stab or gunshot wounds anywhere. The radiographs David took show some bone fractures but I agree with his conclusions that they were caused post-mortem, heat rather than by ante-mortem trauma. Same for the skin splitting in places, as you can see."

"So cause of death is unknown," Catherine remarked.

"Well, there is something, but I need to dig deeper." Robbins looked up at them over the top of his glasses and smiled. "So to speak."

Reaching up, he switched on the monitor that hung over the table, then moved over to the computer and tapped a few keys. A frontal X-ray image of the victim's head and neck filled the screen. Grissom leaned forward and wishing he'd remembered to bring his glasses with him squinted up at the image. The hyoid bone was clearly broken.

"As you both know," Robbins began, "The hyoid bone is not susceptible to easy fracture. In fact, it takes tremendous pressure to break it. The fire could have done it post-mortem, but judging by the position of the victim―"

Understanding dawned on Grissom. "She was lying prone, with her face turned away, hence protecting that part of her neck from the fire."

"That's right."

"Are you saying she was strangulated?" Catherine asked.

"Or throttled. But as I said, I need to dig deeper, check for ante-mortem bruising to the area."

"Could the fracture have happened at the scene during recovery of the body?" Grissom asked, his eyes on the victim.

"I trust David implicitly," Robbins said with surprise.

Grissom snapped his gaze up. "I'm sorry," he said, raising his hand in apology. "I didn't mean to imply _David_ had." Feeling flustered, he sighed. "I was thinking of the fire crew that found her. Maybe they moved her."

"I'll check with David, but they should know better than to do that."

Grissom nodded, then sighed again and rubbed a tired hand down his face. "Have you notified PD?"

"I have. When I texted you."

Good, Grissom thought, Brass would undoubtedly already be on the case, gathering background information and interviewing the victim's friends and family. Did she have a boyfriend? Was she in an abusive relationship, maybe?

"I'll let Mike Schaffer know," Catherine said.

_I bet you will_, Grissom thought, but kept it to himself.

Robbins nodded. "Thank you. Tell him that I'll get him a copy of everything as soon as I've got it."

"Have next-of-kin been?" Grissom asked.

Robbins shook his head. "Not yet. Visual identification will be hard and inconclusive, but so far from what Captain Brass said everything leads to believe our victim is indeed Heather Clarke. I'm waiting on medical and dental records. David took dental charts for comparison. He managed to get some DNA from the marrow in the right femur."

Grissom nodded, made a mental note to call Brass later for a status report. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome. I'll let you know as soon as I have something more concrete for you."

Grissom nodded again, then he glanced at Catherine and taking his lab coat off made his way to the door. He could feel both Catherine and doc's eyes on him all the while.

"How was Céline?" he heard Catherine ask, but he didn't wait for Robbins' answer to find out.

"Gil, wait up?" Catherine called a little breathlessly, catching up with him as he reached the car lot. "I'm giving you a ride, remember?"

Grissom sighed. "Sorry." He gave his head a shake. "It's just…I've a lot on my mind, that's all."

Catherine gave his arm a pat, and they set off toward Catherine's silver SUV. "You need to go home. Get a little sleep."

"So do you."

Catherine's only response was to smile enigmatically, but Grissom was no fool. Catherine beeped the car open and they climbed in.

"Catherine, you got to watch Schaffer, all right? I don't like his intentions."

Catherine's smile spread across her face. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

When he finally got to the hospital, Sara was sitting up in bed, idly flicking through a magazine and much to his relief visitor-free. The oxygen mask was gone, replaced by a cannula that fed oxygen through her nose. She wore the pyjamas she kept at his place and he'd brought along that morning. A wide smile formed on her lips as he approached and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Ready for one more visitor?" he asked brightly.

She chuckled. "I thought you'd never get here."

The hoarse huskiness in her voice made his smile grow. "I'm sorry. I slept in."

Her expression softening, she nodded her head in understanding. "You look better for it."

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better." She pointed at her throat. "Aside from the Lindsay Lohan thing going on."

His lips curled in a smile. "I was thinking more Scarlett Johansson. I like it," he said softly after a pause. "A lot."

Her laughter turned into a sharp wheeze, then a phlegmy coughing fit. Grissom rushed round to the other side of the bed, picked up her glass and brought the straw to her lips. She took a few sips of water, then gently pushed his hand away.

"You okay?" he asked, setting the glass back.

Sara gave a small nod. "Just don't make me laugh," she said, and then took a few slow, steadying breaths. She reached for a paper bowl and spit out a little mucus in it. "Greg passed on your message by the way."

"I bet he did," Grissom replied in a chuckle, as he took the bowl from her and set it on the bedside table.

"I'm sorry."

Grissom's expression creased with a frown. "Whatever for?"

"Him founding out like that."

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "It's not your fault, or the end of the world. Brass knows too."

Sara cocked a brow. "You told him?"

"He kind of figured it out."

Sara's smile was gentle and reflective. "We're not as astute as we thought."

Grissom laughed again. "We did all right." He paused, lowered his gaze hesitantly, and then brought it back up to Sara's face, his mind made up. "I'm going to take a few days off when you get out, and look after you."

Sara's face was soft. "Gil, you don't need to do that. I'll be fine." She paused and took a few breaths through the cannula. "Besides, I'm not sure my staying at your place is such a good idea."

Grissom frowned. "How do you mean?"

Sitting forward, Sara stroked her hand to his face, and he knew he wasn't going to like what she was about to say. "The guys have been to your place. They know there's only one bedroom. They're not stupid, they'll work it out."

"I'll think of something."

"Gil." She paused and dropped her hand, and he could tell she was choosing her words carefully.

"Sara, if they find out, they find out," he cut in impatiently, and checked himself. "We'll deal with it."

"Are you sure?" her eyes asked him, and he nodded his head vigorously. He didn't want work to know about the relationship because of the unavoidable ramifications, but he wouldn't lie about it. And there was no way Sara wasn't going to stay at his place. It's not like she had any family she could call on to, and staying in a motel was out of the question.

"Greg said the damage to my apartment wasn't as bad as first feared," she said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Grissom brightened up at the change of topic. "Your bedroom's mainly intact. You must have closed the door after you."

Sara's eyes took on a sad and distant turn, as if she was trying to remember. Was she about to share what she'd lived through with him, he wondered? He waited, and silently willed her to, but she didn't, simply refocusing on him and giving him a soft smile he could only helplessly reciprocate. In time, he hoped she would be able to open up and tell him.

"I found your box," he said suddenly, "you know, the one you keep at the back of the closet in your bedroom. There was no damage to it at all."

Tears filled Sara's eyes unexpectedly. "Thank you," she choked out.

He nodded, and knowing how precious the content of the box was to her stroked his hand to her cheek comfortingly. "I've taken it to mine for safe keeping. Your gun and field kit I put in your locker at CSI. The rest is in your car and I'll sort through it over the next few days. Catherine is going to call a fire clean-up and restoration firm she's used before." He wiped at the underside of her right eye. "It's going to be okay. The worst is behind us."

Sara managed a small nod and smile. "The woman…who died in the fire," she then said. "Who was she?"

Not wanting to tell an outright lie, Grissom chose his words carefully. "Her name's Heather Clarke. I don't know anything more for now. Doc's still conducting the autopsy. I haven't spoken to Brass yet."

Sara nodded. Her eyes drifted shut, then opened again, and he knew the long day was taking its toll and he'd need to leave soon. They sat in silence for a short while before there was a gentle knock on the door and an orderly came in, carrying a tray of food for Sara. Grissom stood up and stepped back, then watched as she placed the tray on the table which she wheeled over the bed.

"Sir," she said quietly, "Visiting hours finished half an hour ago."

Grissom shared a look with Sara. "I've a…special dispensation."

The orderly's brow shot up, and she laughed. "Nice try, but I don't think so." Her tone was kind and amused, and turning back to Sara Grissom twisted his mouth in a pout. "But if you were to help with feeding the patient," the orderly went on, lifting the lid off Sara's food, "I could maybe forget I saw you. And obviously when I come back for the tray you'd be long gone."

"Obviously," he replied, picking up the fork and giving Sara a giddy wink.


	8. Chapter 8

Grissom checked the time on his watch, picked up the assignment slips from his desk and made his way to the break room. He'd left the hospital some two hours earlier, had been preparing shift ever since, but he simply couldn't get motivated. He couldn't wait until Sara was given the all clear so life could go back to normal – well, as normal as it could in the circumstance. He knew his condo would be a little cramped for the three of them, but he was sure they could – and would – make it work.

If someone had asked him, even as late as a few days ago, if he ever saw a time when he'd be ready for Sara to move in permanently with him and Hank he'd have said no. His space, his haven of peace and solitude, of singlehood, was precious to him. But not as precious as Sara, he'd realised since. The long drive to the hospital, waiting for news, fearing the worst, had made sure of that.

Sara had grown tired while eating, her breathing becoming more laboured, wheezy even, and even as he gently coaxed food into her he couldn't help worrying she wasn't quite out of the woods yet. Pulmonary oedema was still a real concern, bacteria developing in her airways and lungs causing fluid to accumulate, impairing her breathing.

And yet a smile formed at the recollection. Her injured right hand and thick bandage made it difficult for Sara to feed herself, and he'd been only too happy to help and postpone the moment he would have to leave. "When you're out of here," he'd said after a few mouthfuls in silence, "if you're feeling up to it, we could take a trip somewhere." He'd looked up, once again slowly lifting the fork to her mouth. "I mean, not far, just…somewhere quiet, away from everything."

Sara opened her mouth, taking the food from him, and chewed carefully.

"It's been a long time since we did that," he remarked, meditative as he lowered the fork back to the plate.

"You know I can do this myself, right?" she said wiping her chin with the paper napkin when she'd finished the mouthful.

A slow smile spread on his face. "I know."

She stared at him, then brought her hand up to her mouth to cough. Quickly he swapped the fork for the glass of water and passed it to her. She took a few careful sips, and he passed her the paper napkin to wipe at a little spit on her lip.

"You're enjoying yourself far too much," she said, her lips twitching with a mischievous smile.

"I'm only doing as told," he said, when the closer truth was that he liked looking after her. He loaded the fork again, then mimed opening his mouth as he brought the food to her lips. "So," he prompted, as she chewed, "about that trip?"

"It'd be nice."

When having had enough she shook her head he didn't insist, simply rolling the table aside and watching her with concern. She was looking drained with the effort of eating and breathing, and there was nothing else he could do to help her. She gave him a smile and shuffled up a little on the bed.

"Sit with me a moment," her eyes told him.

Only too happy to oblige he did as bid, carefully climbing on the bed and wrapping his arm around her shoulders while she leaned her head against him. Filled with a deep sense of well-being, he closed his eyes and listened to each wheezy breath she took.

"I'm going to clear space on my shelves," he said after a moment in silence, glancing toward the door when he heard the cart squeak closer outside the room, "Pack up some of my books to make space for yours. Your furniture we can store at my mother's. She's got a spare room she isn't using."

Sara turned her head toward him. "And what are you going to tell her, huh?"

"I'll think of something," he replied with a twist of the mouth, and gently squeezed her to him before asking a little hesitantly, "Does that mean you're moving in?"

Sara smiled. "I'm moving in."

His smile broadened, and he leaned in for a kiss on the lips he quickly had to pull back from when Sara started to cough. But when the coughing fit had passed the smile on her face still lingered, and he felt happy. With a peaceful sigh she laid her head on his shoulder again, and wishing this moment could last all night he tightened his hold around her and closed his eyes.

Much too soon he heard the cart stop outside Sara's room and the door opened, the orderly back for the tray. There was no prolonging the inevitable now, and after giving her a gentle goodnight hug he'd grudgingly torn himself away, promising he'd be back as soon as he could.

And now as he rounded the corner to the break room, he saw they were all there – his team – sat around the table and nursing hot drinks as they waited for him. Well only Sara was missing, he thought with a pang of sadness.

"She can stay at mine," he heard Greg say. "It's no problem."

His brow furrowing, Grissom stopped dead in his tracks and moved to stand close to the wall, out of direct sight.

"What?" Catherine quipped in good humour. "In that ramshackle shack of yours?"

"It's not a shack!" Greg exclaimed. "Admittedly it needs some work done to it but…"

"The _love_ shack," Warrick chipped in, chuckling.

"Very funny," Greg defended sullenly, and Catherine wrapped an amicable arm around his shoulder. Greg suddenly glanced over, straight at where Grissom was standing, and a silent message passed between the two. Grissom flashed a small, uncomfortable smile, sheepish he'd been caught listening but also grateful for what he realised Greg was trying to do.

"She can always come to stay at mine," Catherine said, refocusing both he and Greg. "I'm sure Lindsey won't mind."

Grissom's heart sank at the thought.

Nick opened his hands. "Have you stopped to think that maybe Sara's already made living arrangements for when she comes out of the hospital?"

Grissom's ears pricked up. _Nick, the voice of reason_, he thought. Worried he might look like he was eavesdropping – which he was – Grissom reached for his cell and pretended to use it while head bent toward the device he spied at his team out of the corner of his eye and listened.

Catherine's brow arched in interest as she waited for more. "She said something to you?" she eventually asked, with unconcealed curiosity, and taking a sip of his drink Greg glanced toward Grissom again.

"No. Not in so many words," Nick replied, then paused. "But," he shrugged, "I think Sara's got a boyfriend, that's all."

"I knew it!" Catherine exclaimed, banging her hand on the table.

"What makes you say that?" Greg asked Nick, his face a picture of surprise and innocence.

"Just…you know, there was toiletry stuff in the bathroom at the hospital, the change of clothes she was wearing. Someone must have brought them for her."

_I did,_ Grissom thought with an inward sigh at yet another oversight.

"Someone could have bought them for her," Warrick said, matter-of-fact.

"Who?" Catherine asked. "Did you?"

Warrick's lift of the shoulder was answer enough. "Maybe Griss did."

Grissom's heartbeat quickened.

"Grissom?" Catherine exclaimed, with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"Just sayin'," Warrick mumbled in a way that told Grissom he was in agreement with Catherine.

_Ah, Warrick,_ Grissom thought, and shook his head, _Warrick, Warrick, Warrick_._ You disappoint me._ Grissom shook his head again, then allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. _Wait till I tell Sara_, he thought.

"I think Nick's right though," Catherine told her rapt audience, drawing him out of his musings. "When we went to her apartment earlier, there were two sets of everything in the dishrack. Someone was round for breakfast, I know it."

Mouths pursed, heads nodded in agreement. All, except Greg who stole another glance at Grissom. Was that his cue?

"Do _you_ know?" Warrick asked Greg, who refocused with a start.

Greg shrugged his shoulder. "Sara never…mentioned anyone."

With a sigh, Grissom put his phone away. He was about to go into the room and put a stop to the gossip, when a tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned with a start, only to stare at one of Brass's trademark smirks.

"Eavesdropping on your team?" the captain asked, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

Grissom shrugged his shoulder as if it was no big deal. "There were talking about Sara. I…didn't want to interrupt."

Brass laughed, and together they made their way into the break room.

"Catherine," Grissom said, without preamble, his professional mask firmly on, while Brass went to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot, "I need you and Warrick at a murder – suicide in Sunrise Manor." Catherine stood up and took the slip Grissom was holding out. "Nick, I got a good old trick roll for you, and Greg you're staying here, with me."

Warrick and Nick stood up, and laughing Warrick clapped Nick on the shoulder. "Trick roll, huh?"

"Shut up," Nick said, his tone that of friendly banter.

"Gil," Catherine called, as he made to leave, "Have you…spoken to Sara at all?"

Grissom glanced toward Brass hesitantly. "Sure," he then said brightly. "I went to visit her earlier. Why?"

"Did she mention to you where she thought she'd be staying, I mean, when she leaves the hospital?"

This was the moment of reckoning. Grissom's mouth opened, full of conviction. "As a matter of fact, she did. She's going to be staying with―"

"Me," Brass said, stealing the word right out of Grissom's mouth, and casually brought the cup of coffee to his mouth.

Just like the rest of his team, Grissom turned toward Brass and frowned darkly.

Brass's returning shrug was mild and amused. "I got space," he told them, "plenty of it. And to be honest I'm looking forward to the company." And then in the same breath and totally straight-faced, "Anyone knows if she cooks?"

Brass's question earned open sniggers from Nick and Warrick while Greg silently watched on and Grissom stared in disbelief.

"Well, that's settled then," Catherine said, relief evident in her tone. And with a parting smile she turned on her heels, followed by the rest of them.

Cup in hand, Brass set off down the corridor toward Grissom's office. "Listen, Jim," Grissom said, falling in step with him, "Thank you very much for the offer, but I've got it all sorted out."

"It's no big deal," Brass said, glancing over at him, "You can come visit any time. You know that, right?" The door to Grissom's office was open, and Brass went in, taking a seat and making himself at home while Grissom shut the door after them. "You can even spend the night – or the day, as the case may be. I don't care either way, as long as she pulls her weight round the house."

Brass was enjoying himself far too much for Grissom's liking. "Well, I do," he said, rather petulantly, as he moved behind his desk, "I do care. And no. Sara won't be coming to stay with you. She's going to stay at mine, and I'll tell everyone I'm staying at my mother's. She's got a spare room, even if I won't be using it."

"Buddy, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but Sara agreed."

Grissom looked up and fixed his friend with a look of surprise. "She what?"

Brass shrugged. "She agreed to stay with me."

Grissom's expression was pained, his disappointment palpable. "She did? When?" He lowered his gaze and rubbed at his face. "I don't understand…"

Brass let out a chuckle, and Grissom looked up, eyes suddenly narrowed in distrust. There was a spark in Brass's eyes, a twitch in his smile that told Grissom all he needed to know. His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

"You bastard," he said under his breath, head shaking in disbelief.

Brass laughed again. "I got you going, didn't I?"

Grissom made a little grunting sound.

"You're wound up too tight."

Grissom pulled a face. "Well, can you blame me?"

"Sara didn't agree to anything," Brass then said, "But think about it, if only for a few days, while the dust settles, or better still until she gets back to work. That way, if people want to visit her they can, and not ask questions." He paused and tried pinching his lips to stifle his amusement. "And I meant it, you can come round anytime. I'll make myself scarce, or buy a good pair of headphones."

Grissom smiled. "I don't know."

Brass spread his hands. "It's up to you. But the offer is there. How is she anyway? I meant to go say "Hi" but…"

Grissom's expression softened at his friend's visible care and concern. "She's doing better, but I'm worried her breathing's got worse again. They're taking another chest X-ray tomorrow, so we'll know soon enough."

"She's fit and healthy. She'll bounce back." Brass's eyes lowered to his cup, and he nodded his head. "That fire, Gil," he then said, looking back up, "Well, it scared the hell out of me."

_And me_, Grissom thought, and then because he needed to change topic, "So, Heather Clarke. What do you know about her?"

With a sigh Brass set his cup on Grissom's desk and got his black book out of his jacket inner breast pocket. "Heather Clarke," he said, all business-like now. "27. Moved to Vegas from Tonopah three years ago, in search of a better life. I spoke with her parents, but they didn't really keep in touch. From what I gathered they didn't approve of her moving to the big city.

"Younger sister moved to Reno. I haven't managed to track her down yet. For the last six months, she worked as a waitress at the Mediterranean. I spoke with her manager…" he consulted his book again, "one Ryan Betts. He only had good things to say about her – reliable, popular with customers, with colleagues. Couldn't praise her enough. Due to start shift at seven the night of the fire but never turned up."

"Yeah, and we know why."

Brass nodded, then startled and patted his jacket pockets before finally pulling out a plastic evidence bag he held out to Grissom. "This is her work ID. Found it in her locker. There was a little makeup, a few items of clothing; I logged it all in for processing."

After putting his glasses on, Grissom took the proffered bag and stared down at the picture on the ID badge. "Good looking girl."

"Well, not anymore."

Grissom gave a quiet nod, returned the photo to Brass. "Boyfriend?"

"Neither the manager or the parents knew. But the manager mentioned that some two months back maybe? She turned up for work with more makeup than usual, not enough to conceal the black eye though. When he asked her about it, she gave the standard reply."

"The manager checked out?"

"He did. Seemed genuinely shaken by her death." A smile slowly spread on his work-weary face. "I'm thinking there was more to their relationship than simply boss-employee, if you see what I mean."

Grissom's brow rose, but he didn't take the bait.

"I spoke to the neighbour that called 911," Brass went on, unperturbed. "He didn't know her, not really, just to say hello. Said she was quiet, kept herself to herself. Said he heard more than one voice sometimes, but nothing unusual. According to the tenancy agreement she moved into the apartment a little over a year ago. Paid on time, no cause for complain―" A knock on Grissom's door stopped Brass mid-sentence.

"Come in," Grissom called, turning toward the sound.

The door opened and Henry popped his head in. His eyes flicked from Grissom to Brass and back to Grissom again before he came in fully. "Sir, I got the toxicology report for Heather Clarke. Tested positive for benzoylmethylecgonine."

"Cocaine," Grissom surmised, and Henry nodded.

"Enough to suggest an overdose?" Brass asked.

"No," Henry replied, reaching over to hand Grissom the result sheet.

Grissom took the sheet and scanned the results. "But more than enough to impair judgement." He looked up at Henry over the top of his glasses. "You sent a copy to the coroner?"

"Yes, sir."

Grissom nodded. "Thanks, Henry." He waited until the door had shut behind the tech to remove his glasses and rub his face.

"I'm going to go speak to the manager again, her co-workers," Brass said. "See what they got to say. Someone's bound to know something."

"And I'll check with doc for signs of chronic use, but the state of the body won't make that easy."

"So are we looking at homicide, or accidental death?"

Grissom took in a breath he let out slowly. "The jury's still out."

* * *

A/N: Thank you, as always, for reading. It's the best gift you can give a writer. That and a review. ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

Night shift was over. His team had left some half-hour ago, but Grissom was still at his desk, reviewing the latest nightshift's expenditure report. He hated having to justify every single cent spent, every necessary test and procedure, but such was the nature of the game. He was turning to the last page when his cell vibrated on the desk. _Sara,_ he immediately thought, snatching the phone up fearfully, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw Brass's name flash on the screen. Tiredly, he connected the call.

"So, an hour or so ago," the captain said without preamble, "I got one Cameron Quinn walk into the station."

Grissom tried to shake the fog clear from his mind. "And who's he?" he asked, his brow creasing in bafflement.

"Heather Clarke's boyfriend."

His interest suddenly piqued, Grissom removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose – slowly changing the shape of his nasal passage so he could get more air in and wake himself up – and straightened up in his seat.

"Says he drove all the way from Phoenix, Arizona, as soon as he heard the news," Brass went on. "He's a contractor, been working there since Tuesday."

"That's the day before the fire," Grissom remarked. "His alibi checked out?"

"Sort of. He hasn't got one for when the fire started, he'd clocked off by then and lives alone in his truck when working away, but he said he was on a job until around four thirty pm. Should be easy enough to check."

The drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas took a good five hours; if his alibi checked out there was no way he could have been at the crime scene for six pm in time to cover up a murder. "What else did he have to say?"

"Said Heather was clean. Didn't even smoke, which tallies with what her co-workers all told me."

Pondering that reply, Grissom sat back in his seat and scratched his head.

"What did Robbins say about the drug use?"

"Not much. He can't see any signs of chronic use – cocaine or otherwise. No needle marks, or scarring in the nostrils, and nothing showed up in the stomach content. Her organs were all in good physical shape – pre-fire of course. She was young, and otherwise healthy from what he can ascertain. He can't swear to anything of course, on account of the extensive burns the body sustained." He paused, frowned. "Did you ask about the black eye?"

"Ah, the black eye," Brass mused in a chuckle. "That's a trickier one. Boyfriend said she told him she got it at work – some fight she tried to break up."

"At the Mediterranean?" Grissom exclaimed with undisguised surprise.

"My thoughts exactly. Her co-workers said the same as the manager, that she'd run into a door."

"Well, someone is lying."

"Or she lied to both parties."

Brass's words gave Grissom pause. "You think the boyfriend's telling the truth?"

"He says he was away on another job when it happened. I still need to check that out, but I'm inclined to believe him."

Grissom pursed his mouth. "Maybe she led a double life, one neither the boyfriend nor her co-workers know about."

"Boyfriend often away for periods of time?" Brass mused. "Wouldn't be the first woman to play around – the manager a case in point."

"I thought that was only conjecture on your part."

"One of Heather's co-workers confirmed it. She found them smooching in his office. Her words, not mine."

"Is he a suspect?"

"Give me a definite time for when the victim died and I'll tell you. But he was at work when the fire started."

"And the boyfriend?"

"He was pretty cut up. Says they'd been seeing each other for the last six months or so, that they were making plans, you know, for the future. But listen to this. When I asked about Heather's sister, he said he didn't know she had one, that she never mentioned it. So, I'm thinking they're estranged, right? It happens. Anyways, I put her name into the system, and guess what?"

"She's got form?"

"Yep. One misdemeanour marijuana possession back in 03, and another one for solicitation of prostitution. That was last year. All up in Reno. I got a contact at Reno PD looking into it as we speak, see if he can find her. Maybe _she_ knows about the secret life. I called the parents again, but they've not seen her, or heard from her, not since she left home. They're coming over to Vegas to ID the body later today."

"Well, you _have_ been busy."

Brass chuckled. "All in a day's work – and a night."

Grissom sighed. "You still suspect foul play?"

"Too many loose ends for my liking."

Grissom nodded in agreement. "I'm going to get Greg to look into the vic's employment history and finances, get her phone records and bank statements, see if he can find anything that would sustain this double-life theory. A cocaine habit isn't cheap. She had to pay for it somehow."

"Rent in that neighbourhood's not cheap either, especially on a waitress' salary."

_It isn't_, Grissom silently agreed, but the apartment building was in a nice, safe neighbourhood with views of Mount Charleston in the background. "Maybe she got tipped well."

"Yeah, but tipped for what services exactly?"

Grissom's brow rose. "You're thinking high end prostitution?"

"Or escorting―I don't know," Brass sighed. "But what I know is that there is more to Heather than meets the eye." And then after a beat, "You thought any more about my offer?"

Grissom frowned. "Your offer?"

"You know, about Sara moving in with me."

Grissom's brow rose sharply; he didn't like Brass's phrasing. He didn't like it at all. It sounded too final and permanent. Sara was supposed to be moving in with _him_. He sighed, but otherwise kept his frustrations to himself. "I'm going to go over to the hospital later. I'll speak with her then, see what she says."

"Good. Tell her I look forward to having her stay."

Grissom gave a disgruntled grunt as answer, and then hung up. With a look at the time, he folded his glasses and slipped them and his phone in his pocket, then stood up to collect the scattered sheets of his expenditure report.

"You busy?"

Grissom looked up toward his open door with a start. Catherine was leaning against the frame, watching with a soft smile on her face. How long had she been standing there, he wondered? Immediately he went over the end of his and Brass's conversation on the phone just then, but didn't think Catherine had been privy to anything she shouldn't have. "I thought you'd gone home already," he said, casually placing the report into its folder.

"I'm on my way now," she replied. "I had some paperwork to finish. You got your meeting with Ecklie?"

"Yep," he answered, walking round his desk, "And I'm late for it. I've been trying to come up with new reasons why we spend so much on ballistic gel."

Catherine laughed. "Because it's fun?"

Grissom's smile was cynical. "I don't think Ecklie approves of 'fun'."

Grissom indicated they should head off, and laughing Catherine fell in step with him. "Anyways," she said, "I just wanted to let you know that I contacted the cleanup firm and they're coming tomorrow – nine am. I'll go over after shift and supervise. They'll remove all the furniture and furnishings and everything else salvageable and take it to their warehouse to clean."

"That was quick work."

"Well, maybe not quick enough. You know how tough smoke damage is to clean up."

With a quiet nod, Grissom stopped walking and Catherine followed suit, slowly turning toward him. Grissom's eyes lowered hesitantly, then came back up to her face. "Tell them to send me the bill," he said. "I'll cover the expense."

Catherine registered a look of surprise. "You sure?"

Grissom gave a definite nod. "Yeah. I'll sort it all out with Sara later. I'm sure her insurance will cover it - eventually. She's got enough on her plate right now as it is."

Catherine's smile was soft as she nodded her head. "Anyways I best go," she said, patting her hand to his arm, "or I'll miss Lindsey altogether." She began to walk away. "See you tonight."

"Bye, Catherine. And thank you."

"You're welcome," she called back over her shoulder, and with a sigh Grissom walked off in the opposite direction, headed upstairs to Ecklie's office.

* * *

At first she isn't scared.

She's always been a light sleeper and so is easily roused by the incessant beeping of an alarm she's heard before and recognises all too well. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she checks the time on the alarm clock but nothing is showing on the display. With a frown, she grabs her robe from the end of the bed, slips it on and knotting it tightly in place goes to investigate. She opens her bedroom door, the shrill sound of the smoke detector intensifying and echoing painfully in her ears.

The first thing that hits her is the smell of noxious fumes filling her nostrils. The living room stands in darkness, bar for a ray of sunlight through the gap in the badly drawn curtains and Sara clearly makes out a shimmery haze of smoke seeping from underneath the front door and rising. Her heartbeat quickens. Instinctively, she closes the bedroom door after her. She thinks about calling 911, but can already hear the sirens of emergency services approaching in the street below.

She still isn't scared, doesn't panic.

Should she stay put? No, the fire is near she can tell, the smoke getting thicker, and she might get trapped. It's already stinging her eyes, irritating her airways, and decision made she quickly crosses over to the front door. On habit, she shoves her bare feet into the boots she knows are waiting there and makes for the bolt. She takes a breath, opens the door and pushes forward into more darkness. No time to lose, none is wasted.

The heat is intense in the corridor, crushing like a solid wall steadily advancing toward her and she can't push through. But the heat is nothing compared to the black acrid smoke that immediately attacks her insides and leaves her gasping for air. Her eyes water, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face. What she should have done before she'd opened the door, she realises now, is to go back to the bathroom and soak a towel she could have wrapped around her face. Should she turn back?

_Hold your breath_, she tells herself, _hold your breath. It's not far to go. _She knows the way, after all, the quickest, most direct way out. _It's just hot air, _she thinks now_. Hot air rises._

She can hear the fire, distant yet close by, crackling and quickly destroying everything in its path. She can't see a thing. Taking a right, she drops to her knees and as she crawls forward keeps taking small, shallow breaths to preserve her lungs. She is already exhausted. Her chest hurts; she keeps coughing. Her eyes refuse to open. Her head is spinning. The heat seems to be getting stronger, but she knows she's too committed to turn back.

_Not far to go_, she tells herself again.

She feels her hand along the wall and counts the doors all the way to the stairwell, pushes to her feet with difficulty and tries to open the fire door. It's heavy, stubborn. Staying upright takes all her remaining strength and concentration. The handle is so hot that it sticks to her hand and she cries out, but holds on to it nevertheless and lowers it, all the while weakly pushing her body against the door.

The door swings open, the momentum propelling her forward. She falls to her hands and knees, tries to catch her breath, fails to. The door as it automatically swings shut behind her hits the back of her legs, and weakly she gathers them to her, allowing the door to fully shut. Blindly, she crawls forward, reaches the top of the stairs, but her lungs are ready to explode and gasping for air she collapses. Her body's tired and beaten, starved of oxygen. She can feel it shutting down, herself drifting away.

"She's in respiratory distress, non-responding," a female voice called fearfully, over the sound of an alarm.

"Sara?" a man said, gently shaking her shoulders. "Sara, can you hear me? Can you wake up for me?"

_Wake up? _The concrete feels good, cool against her hot cheek. She doesn't want to wake up.

"She's tachycardic," the female voice said. "Her sats are down, below 90. I'm switching from the cannula to a mask."

Sara blinks her eyes, tries to push herself up off the concrete floor. But it's too much effort and when she can't manage it lays her head back down.

"Come on, Sara," the male voice said, as the cold metal disk of the stethoscope was pressed onto her chest. "I know you can hear me. I need you to breathe slowly into the mask."

_Breathe?_ She feels like she is drowning now, fluid filling her lungs instead of air. She feels sick.

Now she is scared.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Read responsibly please. I kind of got carried away with this one. The final scene didn't feature in this chapter's original draft. I hope it's not misplaced.

* * *

"And how much time do you think Sara will need off?" Ecklie asked, as his and Grissom's budget meeting drew to a close.

Grissom frowned. _Ah, there we go_, he thought. _No words of concern, no, how is she doing, just his for-the-good-of-the-lab speech. _ "However long it takes for her to recuperate," he almost replied, but bit his tongue. "I don't know, Conrad. Two weeks? Three maybe?"

Ecklie sighed, and leaning back in his seat lifted his hands behind his head. "It's just…well, you know how overstretched the lab is already, financially but also staff-wise, and looking at the schedule I don't think I'll be able to provide cover for her."

Grissom gave the lab assistant director a stiff smile.

"Do you think your team will be able to cope?"

It was heart-warming to see his team all rallying round, offering emotional but also practical support to one another and Sara, but also him, just like they had done when Nick had been taken. "We'll cope just fine," he said tersely. "We always do, and that without affecting results. Besides," he added more amenably, "Greg is really coming into his own now. He's ready to be more hands-on."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Nick also said that…" His phone vibrated inside his pocket, and keeping his eyes on his boss as he spoke he pulled it out, "He'd cancel the leave he's booked for the week after next if needs be." With a frown he glanced at his phone, his heartbeat instinctively quickening at the unknown number. "I'm going to have to take this," he told Ecklie, knowing it was the hospital calling, and pushing to his feet immediately connected the call.

"Gil!" Ecklie exclaimed, but Grissom was already out of the door.

After confirming he was indeed Sara Sidle's next-of-kin he listened intently to what the nurse told him at the end of the line. Her voice was calm and composed, full of reassurance while his steadily grew more agitated as he asked questions after questions and breathlessly rushed out of the lab. As he feared Sara had taken a turn for the worse during the night, developing the dreaded pulmonary oedema.

By the time Grissom hung up the phone, he was already behind the wheel of his car, firing up the engine. Taking a left turn out of the lot, he drove on autopilot, too fast and without really watching the road. His pulse was racing, his thoughts taken up with Sara. She was in good hands, he'd been told, Doctor Alvarez had been on shift when the respiratory distress had happened and he was with her now, dealing with it.

This potentially life-threatening condition wasn't fully preventable, but he knew the hospital staff caring for Sara had been looking out for it. All too often, smoke inhalation patients were discharged from the hospital too early, and by the time symptoms got too bad and the patient was brought back in, usually in the back of an ambulance, it was too late.

They'd acted fast with Sara, the nurse had assured him, which minimised complications, but was it fast enough? To Sara, it would have felt like she was drowning. Her lungs would have been gradually filling with fluids, making it impossible for oxygen to be absorbed into her bloodstream, consequently depriving the rest of her body of oxygen. There was only one thing to do now, he knew, remove the fluid from her lungs.

He was driving through the intersection with South Durango when a woman stepped off the curb to cross the road right in front of him. His stomach dropped suddenly. His heart slammed against his chest as impulsively he hit the brakes, hard, bringing the car to a screeching stop a foot or so from the woman. The woman's breathless and panicked expression was a mirror of his own as he sat in shock, slumped against the wheel.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed, shaken and gasping.

"Asshole," someone called as they banged their fist, once, on the passenger window.

Numbly Grissom turned toward the voice, then jerkily undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. "Are you all right?" he asked, reaching the woman's side.

The woman nodded her head, tried a smile, but it was clear she too was shaken.

"I'm sorry," he tried again. "I didn't see you. I―" He sighed.

"You were going too fast," a voice called, but Grissom ignored it.

Traffic was backing up behind him, horns sporadically and impatiently beeping at the delay. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again.

The woman pulled earbuds out of her ears, nodded her head. "I'm okay. Just a little shocked. I was miles away, listening to the music, and I didn't look."

_You didn't look, and I wasn't watching_, Grissom thought with a sigh. Repentant but grateful for the near-miss, Grissom offered to drive the woman home, but she declined with a wry smile and a shake of the head. He didn't blame her. When he got back behind the wheel, he kept just below the speed limit, his eyes scanning every pedestrian crossing, every intersection, as diligently as the day he took his driving test.

"My name is Gil Grissom," he said breathless, when finally he reached the nursing station on the third-floor respiratory ward. He felt hot and flustered, and frantic with worry, emotions he didn't try to conceal. "I came as soon as I could. How is she?"

The nurse stared back at him with puzzlement. "And what patient are you enquiring about, Sir?"

Grissom craned his neck up and down the corridor, searching for the face of a familiar nurse or better still Doctor Alvarez himself. "Sara. Sara Sidle, room 402. I got a call some half-hour ago, saying she was having difficulty breathing. They feared pulmonary oedema."

The nurse unhurriedly flipped through some charts on the desk, before selecting one she read over. "Ah, yes," and then glancing back at Grissom, "She's been taken for a chest X-ray. As far as I know she isn't back yet." She opened her hand, indicating a row of three well-worn chairs a little to the side. "If you'd like to take a seat?"

But Grissom didn't want to sit down; he wanted to see Sara and make sure she was okay. "As far as you know?" he queried with disbelief.

"That's right, Sir," she replied, holding his gaze.

"Well, can you find out, or would you like me to do it?" Grissom exclaimed, causing a passing orderly to stop and turn toward him.

"Sir, please," the nurse said firmly, "there's no need to take this tone with me."

Grissom lifted his hand, palm up toward the nurse, flashed a stiff smile. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I didn't mean to…I'm just very worried that's all." He cleared the emotion from his voice. "Could you please call someone and find out for me?"

"I'll call radiography," the nurse said, in a kinder tone, "See if she's still there. But please, take a seat over there and I'll come and find you as soon as I know more. There's a drinks machine down the hall, if you'd like a drink while you wait."

Grissom let out a long frustrated breath, and after thanking the nurse reluctantly moved over toward the small waiting area. There he paced briefly, then sat down only to jump back up to his feet a few seconds later and pace again. He checked the time on his watch, but merely a couple of minutes had elapsed. He glanced over to the nursing station; the nurse was on the phone, laughing.

"Sir?"

Grissom turned around with a start.

"They couldn't tell me how long it would be until Sara was brought back on the ward, but Dr Alvarez knows you're here. He'll come and find you as soon as he can. That's all I know, sorry."

Grissom tried a smile, but failed, then nodded his thanks and with a sigh sat down, perching on the edge of the seat, ready to spring to his feet at the first sight of Dr Alvarez. A magazine on the low table at the end of the row of chairs caught his eye, not because of the famous actress on the cover but because of the poor white poodle tucked beneath her arm as if it were her handbag.

_Hank_, he thought with a pang of sadness, _he'll be waiting for me to come pick him up to go for our walk_, and pulled his cell out. A quick call to the sitter made sure Hank would be looked after a while longer – how long exactly, Grissom couldn't tell the sitter.

But as he explained this latest development, it was a relief not to have to hide the depth of his fear and worry. Michelle knew Sara was in hospital and why, and Grissom didn't need to pretend. There was no need, no reason to. Michelle had known about his relationship with Sara from the very start. Sometimes Grissom picked Hank up, sometimes Sara, and sometimes both of them. As far as Michelle was concerned, they were a regular couple, Hank's parents, a family of sorts, a nucleus, one he cherished more than he'd previously realised.

"Take as long as you need," the sitter said warmly, when silence stretched on the line, "Hank is no trouble. You know that."

"Thank you, Michelle. How is he?"

"He's a little quiet, you know? Kind of subdued. He didn't want to go on a long walk. Kept wanting to turn back, which isn't like him at all."

_He's missing Sara_, he thought, a sad, wistful smile forming.

"I hope Sara gets better soon," Michelle said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

His eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. "Me too."

"I'm sure they're doing all they can for her."

Michelle's words, however well-meant, were of no comfort. "I'll call again later," he said, his voice choked up with emotion.

The day of the fire he'd left Sara's apartment happy and relaxed, untroubled and unknowing. He'd been off the previous night, while Sara had worked. She'd clocked off on time, and after their walk at the park he and Hank had picked up to-go breakfasts to eat back at her place. They'd pulled in her car lot at the same time she had, parking alongside one another. They'd been laughing, he recalled now, Sara regaling him of the details of a particularly bizarre case days were working on as the trio made their way up to her apartment.

Little did he know it would be for the last time. With a sigh, he put his cell away, sat back in the seat and briefly closed his eyes, ready for the wait.

The mood couldn't have been lighter and more carefree that morning. Sara had jumped in the shower while he laid out breakfast and Hank made himself comfortable on his favourite blanket by the window. When he finished in the kitchen he went to the bedroom, picked up her work clothes off the end of the bed and tossed them in the laundry basket. The bathroom door was ajar, and the sound of Sara's happy humming as she showered made him smile.

His smile turned mischievous, then downright naughty as an idea formed in his mind. Breakfast could wait; after all, it only needed heating up. And he wasn't due at his mother's for another few hours. Why not share in Sara's shower, especially if she was to take ages about it? And if one thing led to another then…who was he to complain? Quickly, he undid a couple of buttons off his shirt before he slipped it and his T-shirt off over his head, pulled at the buckle of his belt to release it so he could pop the button off and unzip his jeans. His boxers and socks came off next, as he hopped on one foot and then the other to the bathroom.

Her back to the shower door, Sara stood under the spray. Both arms were up, her hands massaging and rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Her head was bent forward and slightly to the side, exposing the pale freckled skin of her neck and shoulders. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the stirrings of his lust for her. The tip of his tongue came out, licking his bottom lip in anticipation. His eyes followed through the glass door the downward path of the soap as it slid down her shoulders and back, gathering in the curve of her spine down to her bottom and long legs.

As noiselessly as he could, he opened the shower door and slipped inside the cubicle. Closing the door behind him, he had no choice but to press himself and his erection to her. Sara tensed, but only briefly, before her body relaxed and she made to turn around. Strong hands on her waist made sure she stayed with her back to him. Warm water poured down over them, but it only made the experience more exciting, more enticing.

Swallowing back his arousal, Grissom dipped his head, then brought his mouth down to her nape and gently trailed kisses behind her ear and all the way round to her throat, in turn kissing, nibbling and licking the water flowing down her skin. Sara's body opened as she let out a small breathless gasp, in surprise maybe, but also sheer pleasure and abandon. While his lips tasted her skin, his hands roamed all around her waist and pubic area, before moving up to her breasts and stroking lightly over the nipples, already pert, ready to be teased. And God, would he tease them.

Sara's body's instinctive and intimate reaction was fuel to his passion. She trusted him implicitly, as he did her. She made him feel bold in a way he'd never felt with women before, and he knew he loved her in a way he'd never loved anyone before. He just wanted to take her, there and then, from behind, but then she took the initiative, wrapping her arms back around him, her hands clasping his buttocks, pulling him closer until his erection twitched against her. One hand slid between them and she took hold of him, not so gently slipping him between her legs.

He felt a rush of desire so intense that for a second he thought his legs would buckle under him. His moan, a low sound that came from deep within, came loud and unrestrained. Sara turned her face toward him, her mouth opening, seeking his, while she writhed herself against him. She wanted him as much as he did her. When her mouth failed to connect, she tried turning in his arm, but he held her fast, pressing her body firmly against his, keeping her in place. He needed to take control again and slow things down, or she'd have him over the edge before he was ready to.

Sara pushed the lever to the wall, turning the water off, the sudden silence seemingly amplifying the sound of their ragged breathing. One hand moved to cup her breast while the other snaked down her side, over the curve of her stomach, to the soft triangle of hair between her legs. They parted for him willingly, as a gasp left her lips and he felt her melt at the slow and gentle touch of his hands. Giving her pleasure, and hearing her _take_ pleasure, was such a turn on for him, that it took all his strength and self-control not to finish it there and then.

"Mr Grissom?"

Grissom woke up with a start, a kink in his neck and a flush in his cheeks. Dr Alvarez stood in front of him, and quickly he pushed to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, and cleared his throat, sheepish at being caught napping, but sheepish too because of where his longing had taken him. "I work nights and…" with a sigh he gave his head a shake to clear the fog in his brain and made himself meet the doctor's gaze, "How's Sara?"


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This one is a little short, well, quite a bit short by my standards, but I felt the break a natural place to end the chapter. I'm sure you'll disagree. Do leave a review, please; they are a tremendous source of ideas and encouragement. Thanks!

* * *

"How's Sara?" Grissom asked.

"She's doing okay," Dr Alvarez replied warmly. He was wearing blue scrubs and a tired smile, and Grissom knew that like him he'd been up all night. The doctor opened his hand, indicating Grissom should sit back down, and when Grissom did took the seat next to him. "The chest X-ray confirmed the pulmonary oedema," he went on, matter-of-fact, turning his body round a little so he could look at Grissom as he spoke, "which is what caused her to go into respiratory distress. We acted fast, and no long term damage was done."

Grissom breathed a deep sigh of relief and nodded his head.

"We aspirated the excess fluid that had accumulated in her lungs―"

"Did you have to intubate?" Grissom cut in.

"We did. We had no choice but to insert a tube down her throat in order to carry out the procedure, and intubating meant we could do it the most efficiently and with the least amount of discomfort. We're hoping that within the next few hours Sara will take over breathing from the machine and we'll be able to extubate**.**"

"You're hoping?"

"She will," the doctor said confidently, and paused to give Grissom a few seconds to digest his words. "We knew it was coming, Mr Grissom, which is why we kept her in."

Grissom nodded his head forlornly. "Was she in any pain?"

"Not during the procedure, no. She was sedated; she still is. But the respiratory distress itself would have been a very frightening experience for her." Dr Alvarez reached over and patted his hand to Grissom's shoulder warmly. "You can relax now, the worst of it is over," he said with a smile.

"Is it?"

"I think so, yes."

Grissom sighed, then gave an accepting nod, tried a smile to show his gratitude.

"You should start to see a marked improvement in her condition as soon as tomorrow, but for the time being she needs complete bed rest. I understand that Sara has a lot of friends, _concerned_ friends – and friends are important don't get me wrong – but right now I must limit her visits to close family only."

Grissom swallowed back his disappointment. "I understand. I'll spread the word."

"Tell them to wait until she's home to visit. It shouldn't be more than a few days."

_Home_, he thought with a pang of sadness. She didn't have a home to go to right now, but he hoped that in time she would make a home with him. "That won't come soon enough," he said, mustering a small smile of relief.

"Would you like to go and see her?" the doctor then asked. "She should be back in her room by now."

"But I thought…you said…"

The doctor's brow rose. "You're family, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then, would you like to see her?"

"Yes, I would," Grissom replied, quickly standing up, "very much so."

With a smile, the doctor too pushed to his feet. "But remember she's sedated. She probably won't wake for a while."

"That's okay," Grissom said. "I think this visit is more for me than for her."

The doctor's smile widened. "I understand. But if she does, wake up I mean, she mustn't try to talk and you must call for one of us at once." He paused, met Grissom's eye dead on. "And I meant what I told you yesterday," he said, adding when Grissom stared blankly back at him, "holding hands is still positively encouraged."

Grissom's expression brightened. "Thanks, Doctor."

Doctor Alvarez patted Grissom on the arm one last time before he went on his way and Grissom quickly headed to Sara's room. Blowing out a breath, he pushed the door open and went in before noiselessly shutting the door after him. Electrodes, wires and tubes hooked Sara to the various machines and monitors. She looked peaceful now as she slept, but despite his relief he couldn't help hurt at how scared she would have been when she found herself unable to breathe for the second time in a few days.

Blinking, he covered the distance to the bed and brought a shaky hand to his face, trying to rub the weariness off. With a sigh, he lifted his hand to her face and lightly traced his fingers over the ridges and hollows of her cheek.

"Oh, honey," he said in a fraught whisper, stroking his hand to her hair now, "You've got to stop doing this to me. I don't think my heart can take much more."

He pulled a chair and sat down and watched her sleep. He wouldn't stay long, he should really go and fetch Hank, go on a long walk to clear his mind and then catch a few hours' sleep before he came back. With a little luck, Sara would be awake by then, and maybe up to talking a little.

"Did I make a mistake?" she'd asked him the previous day. "Did I make a mistake coming out of the apartment? Should I have stayed put and waited for help to come?"

"Don't second guess yourself," he'd replied, thinking that yes, she'd have been fine if she'd waited. "With hindsight we'd all do everything very differently."

He'd pondered his reply a lot since, and thought that indeed there was a lot he would do differently with the benefit of hindsight – starting with his relationship with Sara. He certainly wished he were less of a coward and had taken his chance with her from the start. But would it have worked as well as it was doing now? Had he been emotionally ready to commit himself then, like he was doing now? Had Sara? He wasn't sure.

This last year dating Sara taught him a lot about being a man, about understanding and acknowledging the kind of man he wanted to be, and about trying to be that man for her. Professionally he had it figured out, but personally, emotionally, it was harder. The parameters kept changing, they never stayed the same. He didn't get it right all of the time, sometimes still prioritising work, or the wrong people. But he was learning; he was trying. He was trying to be that man for her.

No one could accuse him of not trying.

"I almost killed a woman today on my way over to you," he found himself telling her, speaking the words in a quiet, introspective way. "I was so caught up in my own thoughts, in my own pain, I wasn't paying attention. And there she appeared, out of nowhere, crossing the street right in front of me. I don't know how I managed to stop in time." He sighed. "I've got to get a grip, Sara. I've got to get a hold of myself."

He reached over and touched her hand, then took it in his and played with her fingers as he spoke. "Jim may have found a solution to our living arrangements," he said, and glancing up at her face smiled. "He thought you could stay at his while you recuperate, you know, just until you get back to work and everything goes back to normal."

He watched her intently, searching her face for even a hint of a reaction, but of course there was none. "I mean, I don't like it," he continued in the same quiet voice, "and I don't want you to think the idea came from me, but it kind of makes sense, don't you think?" With a shrug, he lowered his eyes to the entwined hands. A sad smile formed on his face, and he looked back up.

"The guys, they'll want to visit you, some of the lab techs too. Everyone's been asking after you, passing on good wishes. They all care so much, Sara, it's…" groping for the right word, he sighed and lifted his shoulder again, "humbling, overwhelming even. I know they mean well, but it kind of makes me uncomfortable. I just don't know how to respond, afraid I'd let my guard down and something slip." He chuckled softly. "I just tell them to tell Greg, or Nick or Catherine, that they'll pass on the good wishes to you. I wish it wasn't so."

He fell silent and pensive, as he stared at the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, its effect lulling and soothing, almost dulling. Briefly he closed his eyes, nodding off.

"As I said, it'll only be short-term," he said, abruptly jerking awake. "I mean, when you're back at work and things have settled down then I'd still like for you to move into the condo with me and Hank. You got to know I mean that. We can make a home of it, you know? Make it more us, than just me."

When his eyes drifted shut again of their own accord, he didn't fight it. Unbeknown to him, some time later, the hospital room door opened, and someone came in. The intense look of surprise on that person's face soon made way to a look of deep affection as they watched the touching scene in front of them – Grissom asleep in the chair at Sara's bedside, with his hand resting on top of hers on the bed.

Without a word or sound, the visitor closed the distance to the pair, and after a moment's hesitation briefly rested their hand on Grissom's shoulder – whether to alert him to their presence or as a simple show of affection wasn't clear – while giving Sara a fond smile. When Grissom didn't wake, merely lifting his hand to scratch at his cheek and mumbling unintelligently in his sleep, the visitor turned on their heels and as noiselessly as they'd entered left the room.


	12. Chapter 12

Grissom's speed was constant and dead on the limit. His eyes were on the road; his hands at the now recommended nine and three on the steering wheel, as he headed south on the I-15 to the unincorporated community of Sloan on the southeast edge of Las Vegas. Sloan Canyon National Conservation Area includes the black volcanic mountains and ridges that can be seen from most parts of Las Vegas, and is famous for its spectacular scenery, amazing petroglyphs – rock engravings dating back to around 6000 years ago – and native cultural site.

On any other day, Grissom would be glad for the trip, would be taking in the majestic beauty all around, but not today. Today, he felt frustrated and annoyed as he drove, a task he'd normally find calming and absorbing. He'd only been at Sara's bedside a short while when the call had come in, his cell vibrating impatiently, incessantly in his pocket. Remembering he was on call, he'd had no choice but to answer the phone. He'd been glad to see Sara off the ventilator, but frustratingly for him she'd been sleeping when he got there, and sleeping when he'd left.

Male DB found in the conservation area some way off the beaten track. Just what Grissom needed – a hike out in the hot desert. He'd just had time to pop to the lab to pack his kit into a backpack, grab his walking gear and a supply of water before he was on his way. It was essential he got there with enough time to hike out to the scene, process it and then return to base with the body before night-time. He was taking the turn into the conservation area car lot when his cell rang. Glancing at the display, he parked his truck next to the coroner's and connected the call.

"Catherine," he said, "Thanks for calling back."

"Where are you? I can hardly hear you."

Grabbing his cell off the holder, Grissom stepped out of the truck. "Is it better now?"

"A little."

"I'm out at a scene in Sloan – in the Conservation Area." He reached inside the truck for his CSI ball cap and slipped it on. "Hiker found dead. According to the first responder, he's been here a while."

"You need backup?"

He moved to the trunk and opened it. "No. Should be straightforward enough, but I might not be back in time for shift."

"No problems."

He paused, then with a sigh sat down on the trunk ledge, toed off his shoes and wedging the phone between his shoulder and ear put his walking boots on. "If he's not needed out in the field, could you ask Greg to do a job for me?"

"Sure."

"Can you ask him to look into Heather Clarke's finances, previous employment, phone records…"

"You think she wasn't all she seemed?"

"Maybe," he replied in a sigh. "Brass spoke to her boyfriend and there are a few discrepancies." Briefly he explained about the positive tox screen and his and Brass's theory that Heather Clarke had a double life, and reiterated about Greg looking for anything supporting that theory.

"Well," Catherine said musingly, "the plot thickens."

"It does indeed."

"Have you been to see Sara at all today?"

Catherine's change of tack took him by surprise. "Didn't you get my text?" he tried.

"I did. I did. I was just wondering if you'd had more news since, that's all."

Grissom paused, pondered his answer carefully. "No," he said, strictly not a lie, "But as I said this morning the doctors were optimistic."

Catherine made a non-committal sound, or maybe it was just static.

A couple of men wearing park ranger uniforms came over to meet him at the truck, and he nodded that he was almost ready. "Cath, I have to go," he said, and disconnected the call.

The hike took nearly an hour and he was glad for the rangers' help carrying his gear. The body was hidden from view, fully dressed and mummifying as it sat against a large boulder with his backpack still slung over his shoulders. A canteen lay nearby, open and empty. Nothing looked to have been touched or stolen.

"His name is Michael Crawford, from Provo in Utah," David Phillips said, glancing up at him. "His ID was in the backpack's top pocket."

"He's a long way from home," Grissom remarked, and reaching for his bottle took a sip of water.

"First responder noticed the bloody forehead," David said, indicating a small patch of what looked like dry blood embedded in the dark leathery skin on the victim's forehead, "Which is why you're here!"

Grissom frowned at David's characteristic but peculiar excitement and, wondering whether the heat was getting to the assistant coroner, crouched down by the body before lifting his sunglasses to study the area in question. A simple fall that turned deadly, or foul play?

"Isn't this man's car in the lot?" he asked one of the rangers hovering nearby.

"Not that we've noticed."

"Well, he had to have gotten here somehow." Wincing as he stretched over to his backpack, Grissom opened it and reached for his camera.

"Do you ever tell lies?" David asked out of the blue, his tone musing.

Pausing, Grissom glanced at his colleague. "Are you talking to me?"

David looked up, pushed his glasses to the top of his nose and nodded his head, quietly waiting for an answer.

"Everybody does," he replied, turning back to his kit.

"I'm not talking about little white lies," David went on as he worked. "Just you know, do you think it's wrong to tell lies?"

Grissom frowned, then glanced at David again but the assistant coroner's attention was turned on the body. Was there more to this line of questioning than would first appear? "It depends," he replied, keeping his tone even and matter-of-fact. "Were you on the stand when you did?"

"No," David defended heatedly, his gaze snapping toward Grissom, "Of course not. I'd never…No, I―" With a shrug, he refocused on the body, "I went to the hospital today to see Sara and…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, David," Grissom cut in contritely, remembering he hadn't told David about the pulmonary oedema, "I didn't think to let you know. Sara…developed a pulmonary oedema overnight and went into respiratory distress this morning. But they dealt with it and she's fine now."

"I know, they told me." David paused, then sought Grissom's gaze. "When they said only family could visit, I said I was her brother."

Grissom could feel a muscle twitching nervously in his jaw. "Oh," he said, his eyes lowering to the camera in his hands.

"I mean, I wouldn't normally lie but I don't know…it just came out."

"Did you get to see her?" Grissom asked, careful not to let his mask slip.

"Briefly, but…she was sleeping."

Grissom nodded his head, and trying to play it cool moved over to the canteen. "I don't think anyone will mind this one lie, David," he said, feeling that David may be confiding in him because his conscience needed appeasing. He turned the camera on and photographed the container in situ before carefully picking it up.

"They said her boyfriend had been."

Grissom's heartbeat quickened. Could the hospital have told David who that boyfriend was? But if so, wouldn't David just ask him outright? Keeping his eyes focused on the bloody smudges on the canteen, he didn't reply.

"Did you know she had a boyfriend?" David tried again.

Grissom's eyes took on a distant turn, the canteen blurring in front of him, as he debated how to respond. His shoulder lifted in reply. "She…never mentioned anyone." Was his lie worse than David's, he wondered? Needing to change topic of conversation, he lifted the canteen in the assistant coroner's eye line. "I see bloody fingerprints."

David's gaze stayed on Grissom for a beat before slowly averting to the canteen. "The victim's?"

"I'll let you know in due course."

Grissom took multiple shots of the surrounding area and, after giving instructions to the two rangers that had walked with him as to what to search for, set about looking for evidence that would prove, or disprove, that a crime had been committed. As he worked, quickly but methodically, Grissom couldn't help taking note of the wilderness all around.

It reminded him of the trip to the red mountains of Red Rock Canyon he'd taken Sara on when they'd first begun dating. He'd taken his courage in both hands and had kissed her for the very first time then, properly kissed her, Hank joining in from the backseat. A smile formed at the recollection. Maybe that was what they could do to celebrate their first anniversary, he mused, take a trip back there and maybe even camp overnight. With a little luck, the pool and waterfall wouldn't be completely dry.

It was nearing eleven pm when he finally made it back to the lab and logged in his measly evidence. His search for clues had yielded nothing bar the bloody fingerprints on the canteen. Grissom theorised that the victim had fallen over the treacherous and uneven terrain, hitting his head before taking shelter in the shade of the boulder to catch his breath.

Maybe he'd felt unwell. Feeling a trickle of blood on his forehead, he'd brought his fingers to it and then drank from the canteen, transferring the blood. The autopsy should tell them COD, but he suspected cardiac arrest brought upon by heatstroke and dehydration. The lack of a vehicle in the lot still troubled him, but the victim could have hitched a ride. Still, the fresh air had done Grissom good. He felt tired, but rejuvenated. He just hoped that next time Sara would be with him.

"Grissom!"

Grissom turned his head at the mention of his name, but carried on walking.

"I've been looking for you."

"I've been out at a scene, Greg."

Clasping a file to his chest, Greg bounded over, falling into step with Grissom as the latter strode into the break room to make himself a coffee.

"Have you got something for me?" Grissom asked, glancing over his shoulder as he poured himself a cup.

"Yes, I have," Greg said, sounding pleased with himself.

Greg sat down at the table and opened the file while Grissom rummaged in one of the cupboards next to the fridge for some food. He found a packet of Chips Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies past their best by date, but he opened it anyway before joining Greg at the table.

"Neither phone records nor employment history showed anything probative," Greg said, not wasting time, while Grissom bit into a stale cookie. He paused and motioned for the packet, and with a twist of his mouth Grissom slid it over to the young CSI who took one. "But I got lucky with her credit card. It was used to withdraw five hundred dollars from an ATM machine outside the Wells Fargo branch in Boulder City _one_ hour after the fire broke out."

Grissom's brow rose in interest, and he stopped chewing.

"It's not been used since," Greg said, pre-empting his boss's next question.

"Did you find out if the ATM had CCTV?"

"I did, and it does. I called Boulder City PD, and they're headed there as soon as the bank opens."

Grissom reached for the cookies and took a second one. "So, maybe we're looking at robbery as the motive for Heather Clarke's death."

"Yeah, but five hundred dollars isn't much for someone's life. What else got stolen?"

"That we may never know." Cup of coffee and cookie in hand, Grissom pushed to his feet. "That's great work, Greg," he said, grabbing the rest of the cookies as he walked out of the break room.

"Hey! Grissom, those were mine!"

The rest of shift went by slowly, Grissom stuck at his desk doing paperwork while the various members of his team came and went, sporadically updating him on whichever case they were currently working on. Having promised Hank a long walk, Grissom was packing away when Brass came into his office and wearily slumped down into the chair across from him. Noticing the open packet of cookies on the edge of the desk, he reached over and took one. Grissom's brow rose in discontent.

"So, I met with Heather Clarke's parents yesterday," Brass said, as he chewed. "They IDed their daughter's body, and no surprises there. I asked if they knew where Leah was – that's the younger sister – but they've lost touch." He wiped his fingers on his pant leg and reaching into his inner breast pocket removed a creased photograph in a clear evidence bag he held out to Grissom. "They gave me this. Heather's the one on the left."

Grissom pursed his mouth. "They're dead ringers for each other."

"Hard to tell them apart, I know. My contact in Reno says Leah's done a runner, that she left owing a ton of rent money to her landlord. Landlord says she packed up some of her stuff and he's not seen her – or her car – in close to two weeks. BOLO's out on the car, a 1998 Honda Civic, both in Reno and here. Maybe when her luck ran out, she came to see her sister, asked for help and…"

"You thinking _she_ killed her sister?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking. All I know is that the fire's been all over the news and she hasn't come forward."

"Well, Heather's credit card was used in Boulder City _one_ hour after the fire started. If the sister was in Vegas, she certainly had means and opportunity."

Brass reached for the packet of cookies and took the last one. "You mind if I…?"

Grissom pulled a face, but nodded his head nevertheless and reached for the bottle of single malt he kept in his bottom drawer while Brass wolfed down the cookie.

"I've finally managed to track down the tenants from apartment 2B, across from Sara's," Brass said, gratefully accepting the shot of whisky from Grissom. "Couple of guys living together, bikers." He took a sip to wash the cookie down. "They've been away at some meet down in New Mexico all week. Anyways, I'm in two minds whether to lay charges on them."

"They didn't start the fire," Grissom remarked, ever the pragmatist.

"They might as well have. If they hadn't been storing gasoline in the apartment Sara wouldn't be in the hospital now."

"Sara's going to be fine, Jim," he said in a reassuring tone. "Just out of interest, did you ask how much there was in the canisters?"

"Well, they say one was empty and the other only half-full, but who's to say?" Brass downed the rest of his whisky, checked his watch and then pushed to his feet. "You want to grab some proper breakfast somewhere? How long is it since you've had a good steak, huh?"

Grissom thought of Sara and smiled. "A while." He paused. "I promised Hank I'd take him on a long walk. He's a little…unsettled, you know, with everything that's happening. But…why don't you come with us to the park and then I'll cook us some breakfast?"

Brass pretended to mull it over. "You got steak?"

Grissom's smile widened. "I don't, but I'm sure you know where to get some."

It was mid-afternoon by the time he got to the hospital. Sara was sitting in bed, propped up against pillows and looking bright and alert. His face lit up, his heart lifting before sinking desolately when he realised she had company. Sara turned her head toward him. Her brow arched in a silent question, an amused smile tugging at her lips as she stared at him, speechless and rooted to the threshold.

Grissom's eyes flicked over to the visitor again whose features were a picture of virtue and innocence, but affection too, as she stared back. He could have been angry at the intrusion, but he wasn't. How could he be? Sara didn't seem to mind. With a sigh, he looked over at Sara again, his lips pinching as he lifted his shoulder in a helpless, but also apologetic shrug, before he let the door shut and fully made his way into the room.

"Mom," Grissom said, automatically accompanying the word with the corresponding sign. Leisurely, so as not to betray his feelings, he set the bag of clothes he'd washed and ironed and brought for Sara, as well as a few books, her iPod and a brand-new paper crane, on the end of the bed. "What are you doing here?"


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: In the story I allude to Grissom folding paper cranes. It comes from an ancient Japanese legend that promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane. Some stories believe you are granted eternal good luck, instead of just one wish, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury. This makes them popular gifts for special friends and family. Grissom is a sweet guy. ;-)

This is the last chapter until after the holidays. I hope you enjoy. And until then, have a great Christmas and a happy New Year. And thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing and your continual support. It's much appreciated.

Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année!

* * *

Betty was sitting daintily at the edge of the chair and remained so. "I came to visit Sara," she signed back, with a smile at Sara, before meaningfully adding as she twice interlocked her index fingers, "your _friend_."

"I can see that," he signed quickly back. "But how did you…" He gave his head a shake and glanced at Sara, "Never mind how you got in," he said impatiently, but not signed, much to Sara's amusement.

Only then remembering he hadn't properly greeted her, he covered the two steps to Sara and with a soft smile his mother couldn't see leaned down for a self-conscious peck on the cheek. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, as he pulled back.

With a smile, Sara nodded her head.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he continued. "If I had, then maybe I could have stopped her."

"It's fine," Sara said, smiling as she looked toward Betty watching their interaction closely, "Your mother and I…just talked a little." And then just as casually, as if it was no big deal, "She's…offered me a place to stay."

Grissom frowned, not at the offer – his mother was nothing if not charitable – but at the fact that the two women had managed to converse at all. He was going to ask how when he heard the flush go in the adjoining bathroom. He turned around just as the door opened and Edith, a woman he'd met a couple of times before and who sometimes interpreted for his mother, came out, smiling brightly when she noticed him standing there.

"Gil, hello," Edith spoke and signed.

"Edith," Grissom greeted with words and his hands, and then remembering his manners, "Sara, this is one of my mother's friends in Vegas. She interprets for her."

"I know," Sara replied cheerfully.

"Edith, this is Sara…" He paused, uncertain how to go on.

Betty's brow rose behind her glasses. "Your girlfriend?" she prompted with her hands.

Grissom couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he glanced at Sara. _Girlfriend_ didn't cut it, but he couldn't find a better sign. "She's more than that," he signed back to his mother, this time without speaking the words out loud, "and you know it."

The smile on Betty's face was wide and loving as she looked from Grissom to Sara and back again. "I'm happy for you," she signed finally, and stood. "It was a long time coming."

Grissom's lips twisted wryly, and he scoffed.

"What did your mother say?" Sara asked, her eyes flicking between mother and son inquiringly, suspiciously.

Betty turned a questioning face toward her son, and Grissom relayed Sara's question. "Tell her the truth. That meeting her has made an old woman happy."

Grissom interpreted his mother's words, and with a wide smile Sara nodded her head. Then with a frown she turned toward Grissom. "How do you sign thank you?"

Grissom brought a flat hand to his chin, touched his fingertips to his lips before lowering them, and Sara replicated the sign perfectly. Betty closed the distance to her son and patted his cheek warmly, an affectionate gesture Grissom awkwardly turned his face away from. With a knowing smile, Betty turned to Edith who was standing slightly back and gave an imperceptible nod of her head.

"Well, it's time we went," Betty signed. "We'll let you two catch up." She turned toward Sara with a smile while Grissom nodded his head gratefully. "It was nice to meet you, Sara," she signed, and after Grissom interpreted Sara returned the sentiment. "And do think about my offer. It would be no trouble at all. Gil's place isn't big enough, especially with that slobbery beast of his."

Grissom twisted his mouth in annoyance. Turning a deeply confused expression on him, Sara waited for an explanation, but she didn't get one.

"Thank you," Grissom said and signed, "But it won't be necessary. Sara will be staying with a friend of ours."

"Will I?" Sara asked, clearly perplexed.

Grissom turned toward her. "Jim offered and…can we talk about it when they're gone?"

Laughing, Betty turned to Edith. "Let's go now," she signed, "I think we're in the way."

Betty opened her arms out to hug her son, before moving over to Sara and doing the same, and then the two women left. Grissom let out the long breath he didn't know he'd been holding and shook his head in disbelief.

"Honey, I'm sorry," he said, and moved over to Sara to give her the warm hug and kiss he hadn't been able to give her earlier. "I promise I didn't know she would ambush us like that."

Sara smiled. "Well, she didn't really ambush us, did she? And at least that way I finally got to meet her."

Grissom's mouth twisted at the dig. "And?"

"You were right, she's a force to be reckoned with, but hopefully I made a good impression."

Grissom's expression softened with love. "Oh, I know you did. What isn't there to love about you?"

Sara's eyes narrowed, and he knew she was trying to figure out whether he was teasing her or not. He was dead serious. He took off his jacket, then picked up her bag and opened it, before carefully taking out her iPod and a Hershey's bar which he passed on to her with a wink. Immediately, she set the iPod on the bedside table and pulling back the silver wrapper on the treat took a hearty bite.

"How did you know?" she purred, her mouth full.

"Lucky guess?" he said, laughing, and took out the paper crane before staring at it musingly. "Catherine found your other one, the one in your bedside table." He looked up and smiled. "So I thought a new one was in order."

Sara stopped chewing abruptly, and he held out the crane to her. Her gaze lingering on his face, she took it.

"There's a long way to go before I fold one thousand," he added with a sheepish shrug.

Sara glanced up from the crane, and noticing the tears glistening in her eyes, he sighed and motioned for her to shift up the bed a little so he could perch on the edge next to her.

"It's going to be okay," he said as he sat down before affectionately touching his head to hers. "The doc said the worst was over. You'll be home soon."

She turned toward him, nodded her head and with a tired smile leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about my mother showing up like that," he said again, worried by this sudden change of mood. "Had she and Edith been here long?"

"I'm not sure," Sara replied quietly. "I was taking a nap, and when I woke up there they were, the two of them signing back and forth like there's no tomorrow."

He smiled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It didn't feel awkward at all. Your mother's got a very expressive face; it speaks as much as her signs."

"Facial expressions are an integral part of sign language," Grissom explained. "Sometimes no sign is needed, the face says it all. I think maybe she feels relieved," he added after a while in a soft chuckle.

"Relieved?" Sara turned toward him with a frown. "How?"

Sheepishly avoiding her eyes, he shrugged his shoulder. "Well, I kind of think she…you know…maybe wondered if I might…be a closet gay man."

Sara's lips pinched, but it didn't stifle her amusement or the coughing fit that ensued.

"Don't laugh. It's true," he said, as concerned he rubbed his hand to her back, adding when she threw him a look that told him to pull the other one, "I'm dead serious. Never married, I haven't even brought a girl home in thirty years. If I didn't know better, I'd be wondering myself."

"Did she ever say anything?" Sara asked, when she recovered her powers of speech.

"She never asked me outright, but I know the thought crossed her mind."

Sara's lips pinching again, she touched her hand to his face. "She came to check me out, didn't she?"

"Oh, yeah." His smile faded as his expression darkened suddenly. "I was finishing her ceiling when Jim called to tell me about the fire and she saw how I reacted. How worried I was."

Tears filled Sara's eyes and quickly she turned away to hide them.

"Hey," he said soothingly, kicking himself for mentioning the fire and reminding her of her ordeal, "It's all right, I'm not gay. I swear I haven't been faking it."

Sara smiled through her tears, but it didn't conceal the lingering pain in her eyes.

With a sigh, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and held her to him, hoping she could find strength and comfort in him. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked after a moment.

Softly, she shook her head. "I'm fine." She shrugged, then let out a wheezy breath and wiped at her eyes. "It's just that seeing your mother here, concerned and caring…well, it made me think of mine."

"Do you want to call her?" he asked, shifting slightly so he could make eye contact.

"No," Sara said, her head shaking adamantly. "No. I don't want to call her." Forcing a smile, she took his hand in hers and played with his fingers. "I'm fine. I'm just tired and… I'm fine."

Grissom dipped his head as he sought her gaze. "You sure?"

"Sure. Besides, who needs my mother when I've got yours, huh?"

"I hope you're not thinking of saying yes to her offer."

"How come?"

"I don't know," he replied. "It'd be kind of awkward, wouldn't it? I mean you can't sign, and I wouldn't be able to be there twenty-four-seven."

A wide smile broke across her face. "Relax," she said. "I'm not going to say yes. But it was sweet of her to offer." She paused and sighed. "What's changed your mind?"

Grissom frowned. "About what?"

"Me staying at your place."

"Oh. I haven't changed my mind, not at all," he denied fervently, "but Jim kind of put me on the spot. He offered in front of everyone, and maybe it makes sense…just, you know, for a few days until you get back to work. That way people can visit you. And he's happy for Hank and me to stay over. After that, mi casa es su casa."

Sara was smiling. "You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"

"I have indeed." Doubt crept into his mind and he frowned. "I mean, only if that's what you want too. There's no pressure. I just assumed that…"

"I want to," Sara said, covering his mouth with her hand and cutting off his protestations. "Very much so."

His face softened, his heart swelling with love and happiness, as he looked into her eyes and saw the truth of her words. "Me too," he said, and slowly they leaned towards each other and sealed their agreement with a kiss.

"Talking about getting back to work," Sara said as afterwards they sat with their eyes closed, resting. "You think we could make that sooner rather than later?"

Grissom opened one eye. "Nope. You'll take off whatever the doc says you need off. No less."

Sara sighed, but didn't push the subject, and he went back to resting. "You think you could help me shower? I need someone to hold the oxygen tank while I wash my hair. It feels…grubby. _I_ feel grubby."

Grissom's eyes snapped open. "Sure," he said brightly and got off the bed. "I brought you some more clean clothes." He picked up her overnight bag and took out a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants for her to wear.

"You washed and ironed all my clothes?"

"Well, not all of them," he answered sheepishly before smiling broadly and waggling a brow. "But I'm getting there."

Sara was finishing up in the bathroom when Grissom's phone beeped with a text message. He located his jacket and patted its pockets, finally finding his phone and reading the message – a succinct _911_, from Greg. His interest piqued, he glanced toward the bathroom door, which was open a crack, before moving to the window to call Greg.

"Grissom, that was quick!"

"Well, you said 911."

"It was Heather Clarke," Greg said excitedly, "the woman who withdrew the five hundred bucks in Boulder City."

Grissom squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "That's not possible, Greg. Heather Clarke's in the morgue." No sooner had the words passed his lips than he glanced round toward the bathroom to make sure Sara wasn't standing there, listening. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "It can't be her. It's got to be her sister, Leah. They're very much alike – in looks anyway." And briefly he explained about what Brass had told him, winding down the conversation when he heard the toilet flush. "Good work. Let Brass know."

"I already have," Greg replied.

The bathroom door opened fully, and carrying her small oxygen tank Sara stepped out. After a quick "See you tonight," he disconnected the call and put the phone away.

"Greg?" Sara asked, joining him at the window.

Grissom's brow furrowed. "How did you know?"

"Your voice takes on a particular tone when you speak to him."

"It does?"

Sara nodded her head, but the smile on her lips belied her disapproval. "You need to be nice to him."

"I _am_ nice to him."

Sara's shoulder lifted. "Nicer then."

Grissom's mouth twisted in a pout.

"What did he want?"

Grissom's gaze snapped up to Sara's. His shoulder lifted, feigning casualness. "He…had some developments on a case we're working on."

"The fire?"

Unwilling to lie, Grissom slowly nodded his head. "We think it could have been started to cover a murder. Heather Clarke's, that's—"

"My neighbour. I remember her now." Sara turned to the window and gazed out at the scenery beyond through the blinds. "She worked odd shifts, like me, and we'd sometimes be doing laundry at the same time. She was nice, pretty."

Grissom walked up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sara."

She turned her face up to him and nodded her head. "Do you know who did it?"

His shoulder lifted. "We're not sure. But Greg came up with some evidence that her sister was involved."

"I met her," Sara said, her brow creasing, "Last week, or the week before maybe, just in passing as I collected my mail. She was staying with Heather."

"Well, she's in the wind now, but Jim's got a BOLO out on her car. It's only a matter of time before we find her."

Sara nodded, then moved to the bed and sat down on it, placing the oxygen tank by her side.

Grissom watched her with concern; she was looking tired again. "You want me to call someone?"

Giving him a wan smile, Sara shook her head. Then she kicked her slippers off and brought her legs up, and Grissom helped her lie down on the bed. He checked the time on his watch, and since he had a whole hour until he'd need to leave reached into her overnight bag for his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and after making himself comfortable on the chair by her side continued to read from where he'd left off the last time he'd read to her.

Doctor Alvarez had said she could go home the day after next. It couldn't come fast enough.


	14. Chapter 14

Grissom drove straight to the long-term parking at McCarran Terminal three and after waiting for the SUV in front of him to proceed through stopped at the barrier. He powered down the window and pressed the button for the attendant.

"Gil Grissom," he called loudly when the fuzzy voice of the attendant came on, and lifted his ID badge at the camera, "Las Vegas Crime Lab. I've come to process an abandoned car. A blue Honda Civic," he picked up his notes, "Registration, 617-VBR."

There was a pause, a lot of static. "Follow the 'diamond' symbol to the west side of the parking garage, use the left hand-side lane at the entrance and head for the second story. PD's at the scene. You can't miss it."

Grissom knew that the 'diamond' side of the parking garage was generally used for domestic flights and he wondered whether this tidbit of knowledge was pertinent in this case. "Thanks," he said when the barrier lifted, and powered his window back up to keep the heat out.

Brass was at the scene, leaning against his cruiser and talking to two uniformed officers. He'd abandoned his suit jacket and tie, and wore his shirt open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up as far as they could go. Grissom pulled up, stopping perpendicular to the rear of the Honda, and got out. Brass came to greet him as he got his kit out of the trunk.

"I'm sorry for the bad timing," the captain said, "But I thought you'd want to do it yourself."

"You were right."

"Sara okay?"

"She's down to counting hours now, rather than days."

Brass smiled. "I bet."

"So," Grissom said, nodding at the car. "Another piece of the puzzle falls into place."

Brass scoffed. "I wouldn't mind so much if we knew exactly how many pieces there were." He sighed. "I've asked security to provide the lab with CCTV footage from all three entrances to the lot on the evening of the fire."

"Widen the time frame to the morning after just to be on the safe side."

Brass nodded. "I'm just a little puzzled as to why Leah would have driven to Boulder City to withdraw cash with her sister's card, and then driven back to Vegas to dump the car. It doesn't make sense."

Grissom shrugged and walked round the car. Nothing evident stood out. "Maybe she got curious and came back to check on her work, and then used the money to buy herself a plane ticket and get the hell out of dodge."

"I'll check with the airline companies when we're done here," Brass said. "But that still doesn't answer the question of why she'd have bothered driving all the way to Boulder City in the first place."

Grissom pondered that fact. "Maybe we're looking at it the wrong way and she dumped the car first, then headed to Boulder City. Maybe she never got on a flight."

"One hour's a tight window in which to do that."

"It is, but it's not impossible. Or she wasn't working alone. CCTV should give us an exact time and hopefully a little more." Grissom opened his field case and took out a pair of latex gloves he snapped on. "You took a look at the car?"

"And contaminate what little evidence there might be? You know me better than that." Brass paused, shrugged his shoulder. "I did take a little peek through the window though, and noticed the straw in the cup on the drinks holder. That should give us _some_ DNA."

Grissom looked at Brass from the corner of his eye and smiled. "Do you ever miss working at the lab?"

"No," Brass replied categorically, and Grissom's smile widened.

"Sir?"

Brass looked over his shoulder and nodded at the officer that had called him while Grissom set to work, starting with popping the trunk open. Aside from the usual paraphernalia it was empty. Then he began processing the exterior of the car, taking photographic evidence before printing all the handles and other pertinent areas, collecting a little soil material from the tyre treads, finishing just as the tow truck that would take the Honda back to CSI arrived.

"So, what time should I expect you?" Brass asked, as the tow truck left with the Civic safely secured on the back of it.

Grissom turned to look at Brass. "Expect me?" he asked, confused.

"You and Sara. Tomorrow."

"Oh." Grissom shrugged. "I said I'd pick Sara up at lunchtime. Give the doc enough time to do his final checks and get the paperwork done."

Brass nodded. "Come round for lunch. The house is all straightened out, and I even got some food in. Healthy stuff too."

The corner of Grissom's mouth curled up. "You're still sure…about Sara staying with you?"

Brass watched his friend carefully. "You wish I hadn't offered, don't you?"

Grissom shrugged. "It's for the best, I know, but…I wish she was coming home with me and Hank, that's all."

Brass paused, nodded his head. "It's serious, isn't it? Between the two of you, I mean."

Grissom gave a soft smile. "As serious as it gets."

The look on Brass's face was warm and caring as he patted Grissom on the arm. "I'm looking forward to having her stay."

"Don't get used to it." For years Grissom had lived alone and been quite contented, but now he couldn't imagine not having Sara and Hank around. "You should get yourself a pet," he said, moving away to pack his gear back into the trunk of his truck.

Brass burst out laughing. "A pet isn't what I need, my friend. No. What I need is a good woman, and they're in short supply." He paused. "You know, I was thinking, I don't mind if Sara uses my house address for postal purposes afterwards, you know, when she goes back to work and moves in with you. It's a stupid rule not to allow co-workers to date."

"Well, it's not the co-worker bit that's the problem."

"Still."

Grissom lowered his gaze, then brought it back up to Brass's face. "I'm thinking of stepping down."

Brass's eyes widened. "What? From your supervisory role?" Grissom nodded, and Brass blew a breath. "Wow. That's big."

Grissom's shoulder lifted. Of course, he could try switching to days or swing shift supervisor if a position opened, but he hated the idea of not working alongside Sara and the different shift patterns would wreak havoc with their private life. "I never wanted to be supervisor in the first place," he said. "I kind of was pushed into the job, if you recall."

Brass laughed. "Best thing that happened to either of us."

Grissom smiled. Well, that was true, he thought. Sara would never have come to Vegas had it not been for Holly Gribbs dying and the subsequent reshuffling of the night shift.

"I made a lousy supervisor," Brass went on, still chuckling to himself.

"You weren't that bad."

Grissom returned to the lab to log in his evidence and by the time that was done it was almost time for shift. He sat behind his desk, caught up on memos and emails, assigned new cases to his team, and then with Nick's help set about processing the interior of Leah Clarke's Honda Civic. More prints were collected, as well as sweet, food and foil wrappers and a baggy of as yet unidentified blue pills.

"Sara sent me a text message yesterday," Nick said, as they filled in paperwork, "Said she was coming out of the hospital later today."

Grissom looked up at Nick over the top of his glasses and nodded his head.

"She asked how we were getting along without her. I think she misses us."

Grissom smiled. She does, he thought to himself.

"She's bummed she can't get back to work straightaway."

"It's for the best," Grissom said, keeping his voice neutral. "She needs to get her strength back first. It was a close shave."

Nick gave a thoughtful nod. "Warrick and I have a date with her this Saturday," he said, brightening up.

That was news to Grissom. "You have?" he said, frowning.

"Beer and Pizza. Well, root beer for Sara. Brass said it was okay. It's the start of college football season. Longhorns vs the Cowboys."

The pang of jealously, or was it insecurity and self-doubt, that reared its ugly head stung and had Grissom nod and return to his report with a sigh. Sara was missing her friends and wanted to spend time with them, which was normal he thought, but she could have mentioned it. The rest of shift went by at a snail's pace. Grissom checked on Archie a couple of times, but the A/V tech was making slow headway with the airport parking lot CCTV tapes.

He was working at his desk when with a knock on his office door Archie bounded in and handed him a grainy black and white still of the Honda Civic stopped at one of the barriers at the Paradise Road entrance. The date stamp was the day of the fire, the time 21.30 pm. The woman at the wheel was clearly visible and recognisable behind wide sunglasses, the passenger not so much. A wide smile formed on Grissom's face. Could Greg have been right?

"Thanks, Archie," he said, and picked up his desk phone to call DNA. "Wendy," he said when the tech picked up the phone, "When will the results come in for the bone marrow in the Heather Clarke's case?"

"A couple of days, Sir."

Grissom sighed. "I need them sooner than that." After disconnecting the call he rang Brass. "I've another two pieces to add to the puzzle," he said when the captain picked up.

"Well, I have one too," Brass said. "You first."

For the third day in a row, Grissom left the lab on time. The day was already warm despite the early hour, promising more temperatures in the high nineties. He picked up Hank from Michelle's, bought the day's paper and together they went for their long walk at the park. Back home, he made them some breakfast, which they ate in front of the television.

Grissom woke up some two hours later, startled and disoriented, his heart thumping in his chest. Hank was sound asleep at the other end of the couch. He'd been dreaming of Sara caught in that fire, struggling to make her way out, the outcome not so positive this time. Still groggy, he lowered his feet from the coffee table and checked the time, relieved to see he had another hour before he would need to head for the hospital to pick her up.

In his bedroom, he peeled his sweaty clothes off and jumped under the cooling and soothing spray of the shower. When he was ready, he threw a change of clothes in a bag, a few toiletries, his shaving kit, as well as Hank's things. He didn't think he would be able to spend the night – or the day – at Brass's place especially if Sara planned to have many visitors, but Hank would. He'd be good company for Sara, a welcome distraction, until she could get back to work and everything returned to normal.

When nearing one pm he finally got to the hospital, Sara was sitting at the edge of the bed, ready and waiting. She was looking bright but fed-up. Her bags sat already packed near the door. She looked up to him with a beaming smile, set down the magazine she'd been leafing through and got off the bed. "I thought you'd never get here," she said, moving to embrace him.

"I'm surprised you weren't waiting in the lobby," he laughed, and pressing a kiss to the top of her head held her to him.

"I worried I might miss you."

"You got everything?"

"I even picked up my prescription. Just let's get out of here. I need some fresh air."

Outside the hospital, Sara closed her eyes and blew out a deep breath, then winced at the harsh sunlight and turned her head away. Grissom set the two travel bags down at his feet.

"Here," he said, pulling his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and passing them to her. "You wait here while I go fetch the car."

"Gil, don't do this," she said, in a mild warning tone.

"Do what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Treat me like an invalid."

"I'm not―"

"Oh, come on. You offer the carry the bags and I let you. Isn't that enough?" Sara lowered her voice a notch as an elderly couple walked past them into the building. "I didn't need the wheelchair just then, and I don't need you to fetch the car now."

Grissom sighed. "The doc said to take it easy and not do anything that's going to get you out of breath."

"No," Sara countered heatedly. "He said not to do anything strenuous, and to stop if I become breathless. That's not the same thing. He also said to get back to as normal a routine as possible." Grissom opened his mouth, and knowing he wasn't going to win this argument shut it again. Happy that she'd made her point, Sara donned the sunglasses and took a right turn down the footpath, muttering to herself, "I can walk to the damn car."

Grissom's expression brightened suddenly. "Sara?" he called, pinching his lips to suppress his smile, and when she turned round nodded his head in the opposite direction. "The car's this way."

A wide smile broke across Sara's face as head shaking she retraced her steps to him. "Don't say it."

Grissom cocked his brow, but wisely kept his mouth shut, and together they crossed two car lots over to where he'd parked the Prius. That way, he figured, if someone happened to drive past Brass's house and saw Sara's car on the drive rather than his own they wouldn't think anything of it.

"Hank can't wait to see you," he said, opening the door for Sara, and she got in. "He's at Jim's."

Sara sighed, nodded her head. "I can't wait for everything to get back to normal," she said, thoughtful.

Grissom watched her for a moment before he closed the door, walked round to the driver's side and got behind the wheel. "You heard the doc," he said, "a week and then you can get back to work."

"Yeah," Sara said, despondently, "lab work and light duties."

Grissom smiled and patted his hand to her leg. "The lab has missed you. I've missed you."

Sara gave him a happy smile. "Drive."

Grissom motioned for Sara to open the glove box, and without needed for him to elaborate she passed him his spare sunglasses. "Jim's making us lunch," he said as buckling up he started the engine.

"Do we have time to swing by my apartment on the way?"

Grissom eased a look in her direction. "Sara, I don't think―"

"I need to see for myself," she said, and Grissom knew not to insist.

Grissom slowed down as they neared her apartment building, then signalled and turned across the traffic into the parking lot, parked up and killed the engine. Sara was staring at the building, the downward curve of her mouth speaking louder than words ever could. He reached for her hand on her lap and squeezed it. With a sigh, Sara looked over at him and gave him a small smile.

"I guess it could have been a lot worse," she said, downcast.

Shifting round in his seat, Grissom nodded his head and wiped a gentle finger to the tear gathered in the corner of her left eye. They nodded their heads in silent agreement and Grissom started the car up again, headed to Brass.

"You okay?" he asked when he pulled along Brass's car on the driveway.

Mustering a smile, Sara nodded her head. With a heavy heart, Grissom released his seatbelt, then reached across to undo Sara's before leaning over her to roll it back into place, pausing for a second with his lips close to hers. He smiled at her, but thinking that Brass would have heard the car coming and was most probably watching kissed her softly on the cheek.

"We should head in," he said, "before Hank tears the place apart."

Grissom opened his door and was about to step out when Sara held him back by the shoulder. When frowning he turned toward her, she stretched over to him and her hand cupping his cheek kissed him softly on the lips. "Thank you," she said, smiling as she pulled back.

He joined her at the open trunk and took the bags she was pulling out from her, lifting his brow in a silent command when she resisted. The front door opened and Brass appeared, Hank slipping past him and tail wagging manically making straight for Sara. A wide smile on her face, Sara relinquished her hold on the bags, then crouched down and hugged and ruffled the Boxer's head, laughing and cooing as she returned his warm welcome.

Brass wore sweat pants, a New Jersey Devils jersey and a fond smile as he watched on. "Welcome to chez Jim," he said, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes making Grissom suddenly very wary.


	15. Chapter 15

"I made us some lunch," Brass said as he opened the front door and led them into the house. "I hope you're hungry."

"You're kidding me?" Sara exclaimed. Hank was still circling her legs joyfully, and she gently nudged him into the house. "I'm starving."

"Hospital food's the pits, huh," he said. "I remember it well."

Grissom brought up the rear, setting the bags to one side and closing the door. On habit both he and Sara took off their shoes. Grissom stood in white tennis socks and Sara barefoot. The television was tuned to a sports channel, the sound muted. Brass reached for the remote on the coffee table and turned it off.

"I made the guest room up for you," he said, looking at Sara. "There's plenty of towels in the closet in the bathroom. All clean," he added with a sly grin. "Anything else you need you just ask, or look around for. Just make yourself at home."

Sara smiled. "Thanks, Jim."

"Gil, you get the couch. It's not bad. I've slept on it a few times myself."

Grissom pursed his face, but didn't take the bait. He knew a few digs were to be expected. Sara pointed to the corridor. "I'll just go use the bathroom." She caught Grissom's eye, and he smiled at her. "Don't start without me."

"You remembered Sara's a vegetarian, right?" Grissom asked Brass as soon as she was out of earshot, Hank following in her wake.

"What. You mean to say she doesn't eat ribs?" Brass replied, deadpan.

Grissom let out a long suffering sigh.

"Relax. I got it all under control."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Grissom thought, but didn't say, as he followed his friend through to the kitchen. Delicious smells of Mexican food drifted up to him, and he lifted a brow, impressed. A plate of flour tortillas were waiting near the stove, ready to be warmed up and made into wraps. Bowls of mixed salad, guacamole, sour cream and grated cheese were laid out on the table that had been set for three, paper napkins and all. Brass hadn't done things in half.

Brass reached into the fridge, grabbed a couple of beers, handed one to Grissom. Grissom wiped his finger to the condensation on the bottle and twisted the cap before lifting the bottle at Brass and taking a long, quenching gulp. Brass did the same, then moved to the oven and dishcloth in hand took out a dish.

"Mexican bean chilli," Brass provided when mouth pursed favourably Grissom leaned forward to take a closer look, "made it from scratch. I hope Sara likes it."

Grissom felt a little aggrieved. If Brass could cook, how come he'd never cooked for him, when more than once he'd indulged for the captain?

Coming up behind him, Sara pulled the bottle out of his hand and took a sip of beer. "Just one," she told him in a whisper, on noticing his mildly reproachful expression, before handing the bottle back to him. "You've gone to a lot of trouble," she then said to Brass busy at the stove.

Brass looked over his shoulder and smiled. "I figured you'd be hungry. Come on, sit down, help yourselves while I heat these up."

Grissom and Sara did as bid while Hank sat on his hind legs at the captain's feet, nostrils flaring as he followed his every move, hoping for scraps.

"I'm going to look after you, kiddo," Brass said, skilfully sliding a warm tortilla out of the pan into Sara's plate. "So you'd better get used to it. Maybe then you'll decide to stay here with me for good."

Sara smiled, then glanced at Grissom, who was shaking his head at how obvious Brass was being. "Don't you even think about it," he told her with his eyes, and Sara's smile widened giddily. "I'm thinking fish," he said aloud, bringing his gaze back to Brass who was back at the stove.

"Fish?" both Brass and Sara repeated with evident confusion.

"For dinner?" Brass queried, and then addressing Sara over his shoulder, "You like fish, Sara? I can cook fish."

"As a pet," Grissom said.

Brass pulled a face, then the penny dropped and laughing he turned back to his cooking. "You can't cuddle up to fish."

"But they're low maintenance, or so I'm told."

"Oh, you think I can't do high maintenance, do you?" Brass retorted with surprise and not so adroitly dropped a warm tortilla onto Grissom's plate.

Sara's eyes went from Brass to Grissom and then Brass again, a silent question in them.

"Gil, here, is referring to a conversation we had yesterday," Brass explained, "where I may…" he shrugged, "have mentioned in passing like, how lucky he is to have you."

Grissom frowned. "You never said that."

"It's tough though, isn't it?" Brass went on, ignoring Grissom, and her brow pinched Sara refocused on the captain, "for men like us, you know, past their prime, to find someone special we'd want to…turn our life around for."

Brass's words hit too close to home for Grissom. He lowered his gaze uncomfortably before bringing it back up again and looking straight at Sara, who was watching him with a soft smile on her face.

"And you're right," Brass told Grissom, unaware of the undercurrent, "I couldn't do high maintenance. Too much like hard work."

He took his place at the table, and the three of them piled food up onto their tortillas. Brass's cooking tasted as good as it smelled, and Grissom was glad to see Sara eating with gusto. She looked well and happy, animated as she chatted with Brass, and he hoped that soon she would be able to put all the trauma surrounding the fire behind her.

"How's the case going?" Sara asked casually as she put the last morsel of her second wrap into her mouth.

Grissom stopped mid-chew and looked over at Brass, who staring back at him shrugged his shoulders. Neither man needed explaining which case she was talking about. "We're…following a positive line of enquiry," Brass replied evasively.

"I know that," Sara said, "Heather's sister. I was just wondering if you were closer to locating her."

Grissom finished his mouthful, then used his napkin to wipe sauce from the corner of his mouth. "We found her car," he said in a sigh when Brass stared at him pointedly, "Abandoned at McCarran's long-term parking. She used the money she stole from Heather to buy herself a ticket to San Diego."

Sara pondered the information for a beat. "It's been a week," she said. "She's probably crossed the border into Mexico by now."

Grissom reached for Sara's hand on the table and squeezed it. "We'll get to the bottom of it, I promise you."

Sara gave him a wan smile and nodded her head. The mood somewhat dampened, they finished their meal in silence.

"You tired?" Sara asked, when Grissom stifled yet another yawn.

"A little," he replied. "I haven't been getting all that much sleep lately," he added with a sheepish smile.

"You're working tonight?" Brass asked.

Grissom nodded, looked at Sara. "I wanted to take the night off, you know, but…"

"We thought it might look conspicuous," Sara finished for him.

Grissom smiled at her use of 'we'. "I got tomorrow night off instead."

Brass pushed to his feet and began clearing the table. "You two go get busy somewhere, while I clean up here."

"We'll help," Grissom said, and that was what they did.

As some time later he lay in bed dozing with Sara tucked against his side, Grissom couldn't help thinking back to their conversation during lunch and what he'd kept back from her about the mystery male passenger in Leah's car. Security footage from McCarran's gangways and main departure halls waited at the lab, ready to be viewed. If only they could get a clearer view of the man, Grissom thought, then they could show his picture on the news get an ID, and track Leah down this way. He sighed. Sara shifted in his arm, and he forced his mind back to the here and then.

"I've missed this," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I've missed you."

Sara smiled, kissed his shoulder. "Me too."

She trailed a finger down his bare forearm, then up and back down again. Keeping his eyes closed, Grissom took her hand, stilled it, then clasped it safely to his chest. Sara shifted again, gently pulling her hand out from his grasp but keeping it there. After a while, he felt her hand move again, popping a button on his shirt and slipping inside the opening. The ghost of a smile formed on his face when a few seconds later she began stroking feather-light fingers to his chest.

A door closed noisily in the next room. A truck drove past outside, slowing down before accelerating again. A dog barked in a yard nearby. In response, Hank stood up, then shook himself and jumped off the end of the bed. Grissom opened his eyes, his smile vanishing as he shifted uncomfortably at Sara's touch. He simply found it impossible to relax. Sara pulled her hand out of his shirt, pushed up on an elbow and touched her hand to his face, her lips to his.

"Sara…" he sighed, mildly complaining.

"You heard what the doc said," she purred.

He frowned.

"He said to get back to as normal a routine as possible."

Smiling, Grissom shook his head in disbelief before closing his eyes again at the sudden rush of desire that coursed through him when she brushed her hand to his groin.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to stay here," he said in another sigh.

Sara's hand stilled and she turned her face up toward him. "Why not?"

He cocked a brow, meaning, "Isn't it obvious?" "I don't think I'll be able to show the restraint I'd need to in order to be a good guest."

A slow smile of understanding creeping up over her face, Sara settled against him again without commenting. Just as Grissom closed his eyes again, Sara's hand stroked down to his stomach, causing him to suck it in in a vain attempt to counteract the effect her touch was having on him. His eyes snapped open, and once again he pulled her hand off him.

"Sara, please, I can't do this."

Sara pushed up on her elbow. "Do what?"

He shrugged. "You know. I just can't relax here."

"Think about it this way. I could be staying at your mother's."

Grissom scoffed. "Or at home."

"Home?"

He smiled, nodded his head tenderly, and her expression softened lovingly. "It's not too late," he added.

"It's only for one week," Sara argued sweetly. "I'm sure you can manage it. Besides, I can help you relax." A mischievous smile tugging at her lips, she shifted up into a sitting position next to him. "Do you want me to massage your shoulders?"

"No," Grissom said, bewildered by the offer. "I don't want you to massage my shoulders. Let's just…lie here some more. Maybe I can get to sleep."

"Sure," Sara said, her smile fading.

"Besides, it's a bad idea," he said. "The doc said no strenuous activity."

Sara's smile returned. "It doesn't have to be strenuous," she remarked softly, once again sneaking her hand under his shirt before thinking better of it and moving to straddle him. A rogue smile pulling at her lips, she began slowly undoing the remaining shirt buttons before pulling the sides out of his pants. "Or I could just lie there while you do all the work."

Cocking his brow, Grissom lowered his eyes to her cleavage, his hands to her panty-clad ass. "You'd have to be real quiet."

"Oh, I can be quiet," she said, in a husky whisper. "If you can."

Grissom's lips twitched up in a smile. "Shift up," he said, and when she did noiselessly stood up from the bed and walked over to the door. Hank immediately followed him there, and he opened the door a crack, letting an unsuspecting Hank out. Then he closed the door again and turned the lock as noiselessly as he could, and a soft smile on his lips turned back to his quarry. Because torment her he would.

Walking back to her, Grissom slipped of his shirt and let it fall to the floor while Sara pulled her cotton blouse over her head. Kneeling down next to her on the bed, Grissom trailed a leisurely finger up and down her arm, to her shoulder, slipping it under her bra strap and pulling it down. Just as he brought his mouth to kiss the spot he'd uncovered, there was a gentle knock on the door followed by Brass's voice calling his name quietly. Grissom froze and his eyes wide with panic pulled away from Sara.

"He's asleep," Sara called back in a whisper, her voice remarkably steady.

"I got to head out," Brass said. "You going to be okay?"

"Sure."

"You need me to pick anything up?"

Sara looked a question at Grissom who just shook his head in response.

"No, thanks."

"Okay." There was a pause, then movement behind the door and a small whine from Hank. "I'll make sure Hank stays in the kitchen."

Sara pinched her lips. "Thanks, Jim."

"Sorry buddy," Brass said, his voice moving away. "They don't want you."

"Do you think he heard us?" Grissom asked, crestfallen at the thought, and sat down at the edge of the bed.

"Does it matter if he did?" Sara asked.

_Of course it does_, Grissom thought, but all that came out of his mouth was a despondent sigh. Kneeling on the bed behind him, Sara draped her arms over his shoulders and leaned her face against his bare back. He raised his right hand to her joined ones, holding her to him, and closed his eyes. Shortly thereafter, the front door shut in the distance and they heard Brass start up his car before reversing out of the drive.

Sara moved again, a breath escaping his lips when she pressed soft lips to his left shoulder blade before nuzzling her face into his neck and kissing the pulse point just above the clavicle. Her hands lowered to his pants belt buckle, loosening it and pulling at the button, before her right hand eased under the waistband of his pants.

"We don't need to be so quiet now," she said into his ear.

Grissom whipped his face toward her and laughed in disbelief while Sara reached up her hand to stroke his face. She wasn't laughing, or even smiling, the look in her eyes solemn and yearning as she raised her hands to her back, unhooked her bra and took it off.

"You don't give up, do you?" he asked, his hand automatically lifting to her breast.

"Not usually, no," she replied in a throaty whisper.

Grissom brought his eyes back to her face and leaned across to kiss her lips, every other thought momentarily, finally, pushed aside. Sara responded with a fervour that matched his own, and deepening the kiss he eased her down onto her side while positioning himself alongside her so as not to crush her chest. As they kissed, his hand moved to her throat, stroking down to her sternum, between her breasts before cupping one and breaking the kiss to bring his mouth to it.

He pulled back slightly and could only stare at her, breathless and dizzy, as again he pondered how lucky he was and how close he'd come to losing her. Sara reached up her hand, smiled and stroked his face. Grissom glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was indeed locked. It wouldn't be the first time Hank walked in on them at the worst time. Then he turned back to Sara and keeping his gaze locked to hers put his mouth on her nipple and gently slipped his hand under the waistband of her panties. Her eyes squeezed shut as a soft moan escaped and she rolled onto her back.

He pulled back from her and slowly slipped her panties down her legs. Her back arched up, seeking more of his touch as her legs parted for him. The panties came off. Eyes still closed, Sara surrendered herself to his touch; her back, her breast, her thighs and shoulders. His hands, his lips, his tongue, in her mouth, down her neck, over her nipple, the thatch of black hair between her legs, then back to her mouth. Sara's breathing was coming hard now, raspy and wheezy, and he froze, Doctor Alvarez's face suddenly appearing in front of his eyes, his words of warning loud and clear.

"Why are you stopping?" Sara asked in a breathless whisper when he pulled back from her.

Looking utterly discomfited, Grissom shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I can't do it, Sara. I just can't. I'm sorry." His voice was low, dejected. "There are just too many reasons why we shouldn't."

Sara didn't say anything. She shuffled into a sitting position and averting her eyes concentrated on easing her breathing.

"You want your inhaler?" he asked, watching her with concern.

Glancing up at him, Sara nodded her head glumly. "I just need one puff." Despite the situation, a slow smile grew on his face. "Don't," she said between two pants, smiling too. "Don't say anything."

He didn't. He felt vindicated enough.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Some chapters flow. This wasn't one of them. I hope it reads okay and that you'll enjoy. It feels rather pedestrian to me.

* * *

That same evening Grissom was at his desk getting shift ready when his cell chimed with a text. Thinking it a notification for another crime scene, he was pleasantly surprised to see Sara's name on the display. _Meet us at park after shift?_ her message read, and his smile broadening in anticipation he pressed reply.

"You okay?"

His smile vanishing, Grissom looked up with a start. Standing at his open door, Catherine was watching him with a fond smile on her face. She wore a black leather jacket, a pair of tight fitting jeans and her purse slung over her shoulder. "Sure," he said, feigning nonchalance, and as casually as he could lowered his cell face-down onto the desk. "Why?"

Catherine's shoulder lifted. "You were smiling, that's all."

Grissom pursed his mouth at her teasing. "I thought you had the night off," he said, craftily steering the conversation away from him and onto a topic Catherine wouldn't be able to resist – herself.

With a shrug and a sigh she came fully into his office. "Schaffer cancelled on me, if you want the truth."

He frowned. "The fire guy?"

She nodded. "So I swapped nights off with Warrick so he could be with Tina. Last minute thing."

_Could have asked to swap with me so I could be with Sara_, Grissom silently mused, hiding his discontent, and watched as wincing Catherine picked up one of his replica shrunken heads and studied it. "You could have at least let me know," he said.

"I'm telling you now," she retorted, not so carefully putting the exhibit back down and turning toward him. "Young love; you know what it's like."

His brow rose; his mouth pursed favourably. He did indeed know what young love felt like.

"Or maybe not," she finished in a sigh.

His eyes narrowed at her. "So, you and Schaffer…" He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, his words trailing off enquiringly.

"Don't get me started there," she said, taking the bait and running with it, "the guy is hard to pin down. Between his schedule and mine…"

"Just watch yourself, Catherine," he cut in, his voice full of concern. "There's something about the guy I don't like."

"Yeah, well. No need to worry. I don't think it's going anywhere anyway." Looking forlorn, she dropped down into the chair across from him and let out a weary sigh. "Why is it so hard, huh?" she asked. "To grab yourself a man, I mean – a _good_ man, one that'll last the course. I keep in shape, take care of myself…"

"So, Catherine, what can I do for you?" he asked with the hint of a smile in his voice.

Catherine gave him a wry smile. "I forgot. You don't do relationships. Good for you. Life's much easier that way."

Grissom arched a brow, but kept his disagreement silent. Instead, he slipped his glasses back on, picked up his pen and purposefully lowered his eyes to the assignments on his desk. With a knowing smile, Catherine shook her head, and taking her cue shouldered her purse and pushed to her feet.

"You heard from Sara?" she asked before she left.

His heartbeat quickening at the mention of Sara, he glanced up. "Should I have done?" he replied, playing it cool.

"No. I just wondered, that's all. She was due to come out of the hospital today. I guess I'll ask Brass, or Greg. They'll know."

Grissom nodded his head and watched her leave. Catherine's concern was sweet and well-meaning. Maybe he should have just told her he knew how Sara was; after all he could have pretended he'd called to find out. Wasn't that what a normal boss would have done anyway? Still. Without wasting time he picked up his cell, his smile returning as finally he composed his reply to Sara's text, telling her he was looking forward to it, pausing briefly before he added the ubiquitous XX.

Standing up, he pocketed the cell and was gathering what he needed to start shift when Greg and Nick walked past his door. "Greg!" he called, "Can I have a word?"

He heard Greg and Nick speak then laugh before Greg popped his head round Grissom's door.

"I need you to give Wendy a hand in DNA," Grissom said, removing his glasses and slipping then into the breast pocket of his shirt, "She's backed up. I need the results to the tests pertaining to the Heather Clarke murder case as soon as possible. Before the end of shift would be great."

Greg's brow rose. "I'm not a miracle worker."

"Just see what you can do, will you?"

"Sure." Greg paused, looked behind him then stepped into Grissom's office. "How's Sara?"

Grissom stopped in his tracks. "I thought you'd have called her by now."

Greg shrugged. "I thought I'd give her a bit of space. Give her – and you – a bit of time."

Touched by Greg's thoughtfulness, Grissom smiled his thanks. "She's good," he replied to Greg's original question, "doing well. Very well, in fact. She can't wait to get back to work."

"I'll bet. I'll go round to see her tomorrow."

"Check with her first, alright?" Grissom said with a sly smile as he stepped round the young CSI into the corridor. "I think she's got plans already."

After he'd handed Nick and Catherine their assignments he went to the A/V lab and checked on Archie's progress with the airport CCTV footage. Archie was perched on the edge of his stool, scanning keen eyes over the large wall-mounted television screen and the four different black and white images speeding through.

"Archie, tell me you got something."

"I got something," Archie said, smiling as he glanced at his boss over his shoulder, "But it's not great." He tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard, stopping what he was watching and bringing up instead an already cued-up video segment which he played. "I picked up our dynamic duo here first."

Grissom slipped his glasses on and watched the couple make their way through the crowds along a gangway and then up an escalator. They were walking fast, the man slightly in front of the woman who almost had to jog alongside him just to keep up. She was wearing the same clothes she did on the still photograph taken at the ATM in Boulder City an hour after the fire – a stylish purple hooded tracksuit set. Her long blonde hair was swept back in a ponytail, the sunglasses she'd worn on entering the parking area fixed to the top of her head.

"Are they holding hands?" Grissom asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?"

The man, tall and broad, wore a dark ball cap, a plaid shirt with the collar turned up, faded jeans and black heavy duty boots, and carried what appeared to be a canvas travel bag in one hand. Sadly, the ball cap and camera angle meant they never got a clear shot at his face. Could Leah's friend work in construction, he wondered? Heather's boyfriend worked in construction, he remembered suddenly. Could the two have met and plotted Heather's demise? Brass said the boyfriend's alibi for the fire checked out. But could he have driven back from Phoenix in time to see Leah off?

Grissom watched as the couple emerged into the main departure hall, stopped briefly to talk – or was it argue? – before setting off again and rounding a corner out of sight. "I lose them here…" Archie said, before cueing up another segment showing the couple queueing up at the Southwest Airlines ticketing office. "And find them here a minute later."

"Well, we know she bought a one-way ticket to San Diego," Grissom said. "According to the airline company's records she paid cash, travelled alone and didn't check any luggage in. Used her driver's licence as ID."

After buying the ticket the camera showed the couple moving away from the desk, stopping to talk and hug, partly turning toward the camera as they did so. They looked intimate, as if this parting was done reluctantly. Could it be temporary too? Identifying this man was key, he knew it, and maybe their only chance at locating Leah before she disappeared for good. But were they already too late?

Archie rewound the tape, then froze the image just before the couple moved in to hug and zoomed in. "So far, this is the best shot I get of the man."

Grissom studied the man in detail, then nodded his head. "Okay," he said with a sigh. "Keep at it. This takes priority tonight. He can't have dodged all the cameras. He's a guy; maybe he used the bathroom. Just keep looking."

"Sure thing."

He was headed back to his office when through the plate glass he noticed Mandy bent over her workstation with her right eye glued to a loupe and her face scrunched up in concentration. He stopped at the threshold and waited for her to finish before speaking.

"Hovering there isn't making me work faster," Mandy said, without looking up. "I'll text you as soon as I have something you can use."

Grissom pulled a face at the mild reprimand, then turned on his heels only to bump into Hodges standing there, waiting with a printout in his hand.

"The results came back on the ash-like substance you found in the passenger footwell," the eager trace tech told him.

"And?" Grissom said, suddenly perking up.

"You were right. It is ash with a little soot thrown in."

"From the fire."

"The composition would suggest so, yes," Hodges concurred, handing Grissom the printout. "I'd need an exemplar from the fire to be sure."

"FD report will give us that," Grissom said, taking the proffered sheet and studying the results as he walked off.

The results in question were not surprising in themselves, but they confirmed that the male passenger had been at the scene, transferring residue from the fire to the Honda's carpeting. No such residue had been found anywhere else in the car. He knew he held another piece of the puzzle, but still had no idea where it fitted.

One trip to the morgue and two staff evaluations later Grissom was working in his office when there was a gentle knock on his door. "Come in," he said absently, keeping his eyes on his work, before his sixth sense kicked in and he looked up with a tender smile. Sara stood at the door watching him with her head cocked to the side and a soft, wistful smile on her lips.

"Hey," he said, his tone of voice showing pleasure at the impromptu visit, "What are you doing here?"

Sara stepped into his office. "I had some paperwork to drop off."

He checked they weren't being overheard. "I could have done that for you."

She shrugged. "I couldn't sleep."

He watched her with concern. Someone walked past, and he glanced into the corridor beyond, then stood and went to close the door. "You okay?"

She nodded her head, gave him a wide smile. "It's nice to be back, you know, see everyone again."

"It won't be for much longer."

She nodded her head, then indicated his desk with her hand. "What are you working on?"

"Staff evaluations," he replied, knowing full well she was hankering after an update on the arson case.

Again she nodded, lowered her eyes before bringing them back up. He knew instantly what she was going to ask. "You know, I was thinking. Maybe I can lend a hand – in one of the labs I mean. Everyone's so busy. I could take some of the pressure off."

"Sara…" She sighed, and he took her hand. "Honey, it's too soon. You need this time off to recover. Take it."

She gave him a grudging smile and a nod. His cell beeped with a text message, but he ignored it and kept a hold of her hand, waiting for her to make the next move. She didn't. She wanted an update on the case, and he knew she wouldn't leave until he relented and gave her one.

"All right," he said, and led her by the hand to the two low chairs near the book shelves. They sat down. "I don't think Leah acted alone," he said. "Or if she did, a man is definitely involved. In what capacity I'm still not sure. What we do know is that he didn't go to San Diego with her, not then anyway."

"But you don't have an ID."

He shook his head. "Not yet. But we're working on it."

Sara nodded her head, reached up her hand to his face. Despite their surroundings, he didn't pull away. "Thank you," she said and smiled.

He acknowledged her thanks with a nod. "I need to get back to work now. I'm sorry."

Sara's smile broadened, and she dropped her hand. "No, you're not. You love it as much as I do." She pushed up to her feet and he did the same. "I'll see you later."

"You will," he replied solemnly.

She was turning away, headed out, when he reached for her hand. She turned toward him, and cupping his free hand to her cheek he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. "There," he said, his lips twitching with a smile, "this way we both get something out of the trip."

After she was gone he stared at the open door for a moment, then gave his head a brisk shake and checked the text he'd received. It was from Mandy with an update. He was there like a shot.

"The prints on the steering wheel are useless," she said, without looking up from the print card she was studying, when he stepped into her lab. "There're just too many of them, most of them overlapping each other. Some are your suspect's but you'd expect that anyway as it's her car."

Grissom nodded his head; indeed he'd expected that. "What about the drinks cup?"

She looked up and lifted the clip-on magnifying glasses. "None that match your suspect's."

Now that was news to Grissom. "Not a single one?"

Mandy shook her head. "Nope."

"There was lipstick on the straw so presumably a woman drank from it," he mused.

"Not Leah Clarke. The prints don't match."

"Any hit in AFIS?"

"Not so far."

"Could be the boyfriend's prints," he theorised, "Or the fast-food server's."

"Get me their prints, and I'll tell you." Mandy paused, her brow pinching thoughtfully. "I managed to lift a couple of partials from the straw though and I'm pretty sure they're of female origin."

Grissom cocked a brow. "Pretty sure?"

Mandy nodded. "A woman's fingerprint normally has finer epidermal ridge detail and possesses a density of 12 ridges or more, whereas a man's print is commonly less dense and coarser too."

"And I take it the prints in question exhibits such traits."

"They do."

"And you're sure they're not Leah's."

"I double-checked."

Grissom pursed his mouth, then a thought occurring walked off, headed to the evidence lockup. There he signed out the box containing the evidence collected in the Honda Civic currently not being processed, and set himself up in one corner of the layout room.

Carefully he cut through the seal on the box, lifted the lid and flicked through the content until he found what he was looking for – the crumpled receipt for one strawberry shake at the In-N-Out Burger on 4888 Dean Martin Drive, a stone's throw away from McCarran airport.

The time stamp on the receipt showed 21.11, the milkshake paid for in cash. Grissom looked up and stared off into space, deep in thought. None of the prints on the drinks cup and straw purchased a mere twenty minutes or so before the Honda had entered the airport's long term parking structure matched Leah's, their primary suspect. Yet, they were of female origin. They couldn't be that of a server since the plastic straws came fully wrapped, which only left them with one other alternative.

He pulled out the photograph of Heather and her sister Brass had got from the parents, then the two black and white stills – one from the ATM CCTV at Boulder City the other from the barrier at McCarran airport. He used a magnifying lamp to study the shots in detail, scanning his eyes over the sisters' features trying to tell them apart. Photographs in hand, he rushed over to DNA, headed straight to Wendy who with her back to him was bent over the workstation.

"Wendy," he said, startling the tech and causing her to drop her pipette. "What exemplar are you using to compare the DNA taken from the victim's bone marrow ?"

"Her toothbrush," Wendy replied, while looking puzzled Greg moved closer the pair, "Why?"

"I think you were right, Greg," Grissom said.

Greg's confusion intensified, and he and Wendy shared a look.

"I think all this time we've been looking for the wrong sister."


	17. Chapter 17

"How is it possible?" Greg asked with a gasp of disbelief. "I thought you said the parents IDed their daughter's body."

"Evidently they got it wrong," Grissom said with a shrug, "Just like we did."

"Are you sure?" Wendy asked, looking utterly bewildered, and held out a printout to Grissom, "Because the DNA from the bone marrow came back a match to the DNA from the toothbrush."

Grissom reached for his glasses and scanned his eyes over the printout. "Sara said Leah had been staying at her sister's. Maybe the toothbrush is hers." He looked up over the rim of his glasses, fixing Wendy with a narrow stare. "Who collected the toothbrush?" He turned to Greg. "You were at the scene after the fire. Do you know who brought it in?"

"I didn't," Greg said, "and neither did Catherine. FD wouldn't allow us access inside the building until the next day. You were there."

Wendy frowned, then turned to her workstation and rummaged through a stack of file before pulling out some paperwork. "The lead fire investigator collected the toothbrush, as well as a hairbrush," she said. "It was all sealed, as per protocol." She paused. "Do you want me to run DNA on the hairbrush too, compare those results to the victim's DNA?"

Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed a tired hand over his face. "It won't make any difference if the exemplars don't belong to the victim's," he replied quietly.

Wendy's mouth opened then shut, and she shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Then what do we do?"

"We go back to the scene," Greg said, "see what else we can find…" His words drifted off as his gaze moved to a point beyond Grissom's shoulder then back to Grissom's face, and Grissom instantly knew who stood there listening. With a sigh, he turned and stared at Sara. She was holding a cardboard drinks tray with four lidded paper cups and a takeout bag.

"What's going on?" she asked, her eyes flicking between the three quizzically.

Both Greg and Wendy turned towards Grissom, waiting for his cue. "I thought you'd gone home," he told Sara, before he could censor his words.

Sara lifted the tray in his eye line. "Coffee run," she said.

He should have known she wouldn't be satisfied with what he'd told her earlier. If anything it had only served to whet her appetite for more. His feelings of annoyance and frustration at the case were already high, and her presence there, her disregard for his instructions and lab policy, only served to exacerbate them. "I told you to stay hands off," he said, not bothering to hide his discontent.

Sara visibly bristled at his tone. "I am hands off," she retorted shortly, holding his stare.

Grissom narrowed his eyes imperceptibly, his message clear, "Let's talk in my office, not here, in front of everyone."

Sara flicked her gaze to Greg and Wendy, then to various other lab techs watching through the plate glass, and without a word set the tray of drinks and bag of food on the workstation and stomped off in the direction of his office. Grissom sighed and then glanced at Greg and Wendy from the corner of his eye. They were watching him. He took a calming breath before fully turning toward them.

"Captain Brass collected some make-up when he searched Heather's locker at her place of work," he said. "It's in the evidence box in the layout room. Use that as exemplar. I want the results as soon as you've got them." He looked at Greg and held the CSI's gaze meaningfully before turning on his heels, quickly following in Sara's footsteps.

The door to his office was open, and when he stepped in Sara was standing with his back to him, pacing back and forth in front of his desk with her arms folded across her chest. The tension emanating from her was palpable. He closed the door, and she whipped round to face him.

"Sara―"

"You totally overreacted," she cut in heatedly.

"Are you telling me you're not after info on the case?" he countered, just as intensely. Sara clamped her jaw and stared off at a point just beyond him, and he knew he was right. "I thought I'd made myself clear."

Sara arched a brow, met his gaze dead on. "Evidently not clear enough." Her tone was cool, even.

He sighed. "I don't want you working this case, Sara." He kept his voice deliberately low and calm. This…disagreement didn't have to turn into a fight. She had to see sense. She'd just suffered a serious trauma – both physically and emotionally – and needed time to recover. Coming back to work too soon could have disastrous consequences.

"I just want to help."

"We don't need your help." He regretted the words as soon as they'd left his lips, but before he could take them back she'd level a dark stare straight at him.

"This isn't just any case," she said through gritted teeth. "It's _my_ case. I want in on it."

"No, Sara. You're too emotional."

"Emotional?" she exclaimed with disbelief, her lips curling in a wry smile. "_Emotional_? Can you blame me?"

He raised his hands by his side, then dropped them helplessly and began to pace. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." He stopped and turned toward her, stared at her with concern and did his best to keep his cool. "What I mean to say is that it's too close to home a case for you to get involved in. Surely you can see that."

"I am involved, whether you like it or not."

"That's not what I meant either."

"And what is it you meant, huh?"

He took a step toward her and she lifted a hand, keeping him at bay. "Sara―"

"No," she cut in, and shook her head, "Don't you dare _Sara_ me. Make out like I'm the one who's being unreasonable. All I want is to be a part of the investigation."

"I know, but you can't."

Sara squared her shoulders. "Why are you deliberately trying to keep me in the dark?"

His brow rose with surprise. "I'm not…keeping you in the dark," he defended.

"Then why won't you let me help?"

"Because," he said, this time not bothering to hide his irritation, "Because it's too soon. Because you've suffered a trauma, a physical and emotional trauma." He glanced at the closed door and checked his tone. "You need time to heal. Honey, you've been signed off work for a reason and as your boss―"

"So, now, you're pulling the boss card on me?"

"Of course, I'm going to pull the boss card on you!" he exclaimed, letting his temper get the better of him. "Sara, I am your boss, and sometimes what I say will have to hold."

Sara's face was set. Her lips were pulled in a thin line, her eyes shiny with anger and affront. She turned away and moved to the door, then whirled back round. "Grissom, why are doing this?"

He watched her with concern. "Isn't it obvious?"

Sara's head was shaking. "Not to me, no."

With a sigh he moved toward her and took her by the shoulders. "Sweetheart, I'm worried about you," he said in a whisper, concerned someone walking past would overhear them, "I worry that―"

"I don't need protecting, not from this, not by you. I don't need mollycoddling either."

He lifted the back of his hand to her face and stroked her cheek. "That's not what I'm doing, and you know it."

She turned her face away. "So what do you want me to do, huh?"

"Go home and wait."

The corner of her mouth curled up sadly. "I don't have a home, remember?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed, and he stared at her with surprise and disbelief then looked away, her words hitting a raw nerve with him. "You do have a home," he defended quietly, lifting his wounded gaze back to her. "You've got a home with me."

Sara opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. "I can't do this," she said, once again turning away and putting her hand on the door handle.

Grissom made a move toward her, but didn't make contact or say a word.

When she turned her face back to him, she had tears in her eyes. "Maybe my moving in with you isn't such a good idea after all."

Her words pierced right through his heart. His mouth opened, but before he could formulate a reply she'd wrenched his door open and walked out.

"Sara," he called, but it was a feeble attempt. With a sigh, he looked round his office and then at the creased DNA printout and photographs of Heather and her sister he was still clutching in his hand. Suddenly feeling very tired, he walked round his desk and dropped into his chair, placing the documents in front of him.

There was a knock on his open door, and his heart sank as Catherine gave him a tentative smile. Had she heard them argue? "You okay?" she asked.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied brusquely, his fed-up tone belying his words.

Catherine watched him closely, and uncomfortable at the scrutiny he averted his eyes to the desk and pretended to read over the DNA report. "You stood your ground, I hope," she said.

Grissom's eyes snapped up to Catherine's, showing a mixture of surprise at her guile and resentment that she should get involved in matters that didn't concern her. "I got work to do, Catherine," he said, weary now, "So if that's everything?"

"That's everything," she said, looking put-out at the rebuke.

Catherine turned on her heels with a flick of her hair and Grissom wiped his hand down his face, his eyes settling on the smiling photograph of the two Clarke sisters. He sighed, then reached for his cell, scrolled down to Sara's name, and was about to connect the call when he changed his mind and put his phone away. He'd riled her, and she'd still be angry at him. She needed time to cool off, come round to his way of thinking. He'd give her that time, call her later and hopefully make it up to her.

He wasn't mollycoddling her, but he felt protective of her. How could he not? She'd been through so much already. He took a moment to compose himself and bring his thoughts back to the case in hand before he stood up and headed to the layout room and the box of evidence he'd left there, quickly finding what he was after. He was about to take Heather's work ID badge to Mandy for printing when he thought better of it.

The badge was a clip-on one that fixed onto the waistband of a skirt or a pair of pants or the lapel of a jacket. He checked his own CSI badge clipped onto the breast pocket of his shirt, took it off and then clipped it back on, paying close attention to the position of his thumb and index finger as he did so. Feeling someone standing at the door, he looked up hoping to find Sara there, but it was just Bobby Dawson with his back to him talking to Nick.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the ID badge. He grabbed a stool and a fingerprinting kit, put on his glasses and a pair of gloves, then took the badge out of its clear evidence bag and face pursed in concentration dusted a little powder onto the front of the metallic clip before carefully lifting the print and then repeating the procedure for the back. The mindless task, at once soothing and comforting, took his mind of his personal woes – for a time anyway.

"Mandy," he said, in a subdued voice when she looked up from the computer screen, "these are prints I lifted from Heather Clarke's work ID badge. I want you to compare them to the partials you lifted from the straw."

Mandy's brow furrowed. "You're thinking Heather drank from the cup before she died?"

"No." He swiped a finger over his mouth. "I found a receipt showing that the milkshake was purchased not too long before our suspect boarded the plane. I―"

"She's alive?"

"That's my reckoning, yes. Now I need you to substantiate it."

"So who's in the morgue?"

"The sister, Leah. I think Heather killed her sister – intentionally or not remains to be seen – then set fire to her own apartment to cover up the death and stole her identity." He shrugged. "They look very much alike. Even the parents were fooled."

Mandy was watching him closely, and he knew she'd heard about his altercation with Sara. "Okay," she said with a soft smile, "I'm on it."

"Thanks Mandy. Text me the results, will you? I'll…be around."

After packing his evidence away, Grissom returned to his office. On his desk sat a lidded paper cup, the same kind Sara had brought back from her coffee run. Briefly he wondered whether she had come back to drop it off for him, but then reckoned it was more likely to have been Greg. Giving a heavy-hearted sigh, he picked up the cup and prised the lid open. The coffee was black and strong, the way he liked it mid-shift.

Had he overreacted, he wondered suddenly, and made a mistake? Should he have allowed Sara to stay at the lab and work the case? Would having a hand in solving it help her deal with her trauma and find closure with what had happened more easily? Would being with her friends and colleagues achieve that? There was so much she was bottling up, so much she wasn't sharing or facing up to.

But physically she needed this time off, there was no denying it, emotionally too. He'd pulled the boss card on her because he knew that Grissom the boyfriend was a soft touch where she was concerned and would eventually give in to her demands, that he found it hard to refuse her anything. Grissom the boss was stronger in that department, more stubborn and intransigent. Old habits die hard.

He put the lid back on the cup and took the lukewarm beverage and his 'lunch' to the yard at the back of the building. He found a spot in a darkened corner and stood there leaning against the wall, staring into nothingness while he sipped at his coffee, his sandwich remaining untouched. They'd both said things they didn't mean, well, he knew he had, but he hoped Sara had too.

He'd backed her into a corner, and she had lashed out, her words hurting more than he'd let on. This wasn't the first time they'd disagreed about a case, or about his handling of a case since they'd been a couple, and he was sure it would happen again, but her parting words had made a professional disagreement personal.

_Maybe my moving in with you isn't such a good idea after all_, echoed in his head hauntingly. What were the chances she would turn up at the park with Hank in the morning, he wondered with a sad smile? Was this it for them? Had he failed some kind of test?


	18. Chapter 18

The beeping of his cell jerked Grissom out of his funk and back to the present. He dumped what was left of the coffee and his uneaten sandwich in a trash can nearby, checked his cell – as expected the text was from Mandy – and rushed back indoors. Time was running out. They needed a break on this case and fast. He wouldn't be able to rest until then.

"Tell me you've got a match," he asked Mandy as soon as he crossed the threshold to her lab.

A smile tugging at her lips, Mandy looked up from her computer screen. "Is it worth a raise?"

Grissom smiled despite himself. "Nice try."

Mandy shrugged a magnanimous shoulder. "It was, wasn't it?"

His expression sobering, Grissom cocked a brow. "So?"

"I got a perfect match," Mandy said, moving over to the comparison microscope.

_At last_, he thought, an unexpected wave of relief crashing over him.

"Come and take a look."

Filled with renewed enthusiasm, Grissom walked over to the workstation and bent over the microscope.

"You're looking at partials of the same thumb," Mandy explained, while eyes glued to the scope he compared the prints. "The prints from the index fingers are an exact match too."

Grissom glanced up and round at Mandy over the top of the microscope.

"There's absolutely no doubt," she insisted, and he lowered his eyes back to the prints.

"Heather, I'm on to you," he whispered to the print, briefly closing his eyes before he straightened up. Heather had set fire to her apartment to cover up her sister's death, knowingly endangering the lives of the other tenants in the building, knowingly endangering _Sara's_ life, in order to save her skin. He'd get retribution, if not for himself, for Sara, so she could get closure.

"I'll have my report on your desk by the end of shift," Mandy said, and refocusing his attention on the tech he nodded his head.

"Good job, Mandy."

Mandy gave him a wide smile. "You're welcome."

When Grissom returned to his office, a brown manila file waited on his desk. Taking his seat, he opened it and picked up a black and white 6x8 photo print of the close-up of Heather Clarke's mysterious accomplice. It was the best angle they got of him so far, but still not enough to get a good look at the face.

The second photograph was an enlargement of the back of the man's head, and Grissom's gaze focused on the inscription over the buckle fastening on the back of the baseball cap. The logo at the front had meant nothing to him, but the name at the back _Quinn Construction_ rang a bell, a very distinctive bell.

Grissom's brow rising in interest, he opened his laptop and got online. Then he entered the name into the search engine and clicked on the link to a very basic website advertising Quinn's construction business. Nothing much of interest came up, bar a first name, a cell number and a postal address.

The DMV database didn't yield much more; a couple of speeding tickets and the fact that the height, shape of face and hair and skin colouring from the mug shot on the driver's licence matched the sketchy outlook from the CCTV close-up. Not enough for a positive ID, but enough. Grissom sighed, and his eyes on Cameron Quinn's face picked up his desk phone and called Brass.

"The pieces to our puzzle were double-sided, Jim," he said when the captain answered. "That's why we couldn't make heads or tails of them."

"Come again?"

Grissom allowed himself a smug smile. "Well, first, it's Leah who's in the morgue, not Heather." He paused for effect, before adding when he heard nothing from Brass. "Did you hear what I just said? Heather is the bad sister."

"Are you sure?" Brass asked, sounding distracted and tired and, Grissom was loath to admit it, underwhelmed by the news.

"We're still waiting on DNA to come back but the fingerprints we found on the drinks cup in the Honda are definitely Heather's."

Brass's exhale of breath as he digested the news was long. "I'm not sure if it's a good thing, or a bad thing," he said, clearly bewildered.

"It's neither, Jim. But listen to this. I got more. CCTV footage from the airport never gives us a good view of Heather's friend's face, but…" He picked up the photograph showing the back of the man's head, "I have a name."

"I'm listening."

"Quinn Construction."

"_Quinn_ Construction?" Brass repeated with disbelief. "As in Cameron Quinn, Heather's boyfriend?"

"It would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn't."

Brass made a musing sound. "Quinn was definitely in Phoenix two or so hours before the fire broke out. His alibi checked out."

"So? Even if he didn't have a hand in Leah's death and subsequent cover-up it doesn't mean he's not somehow involved and knows Heather's whereabouts now." Grissom paused, then sighed. "You know how we've been thinking it odd that Leah – well, no – Heather drove all the way to Boulder City to withdraw money, and then all the way back to Vegas. What if she was headed to Phoenix, but the boyfriend told her that was a bad idea and to stay put until he got there? What if Quinn met her there and they put together her escape plan?"

Brass was silent for a beat. "Why San Diego?"

"Because it was the first flight out of Vegas?" Grissom theorised. Which it was, he'd checked. "As far as we know, neither sisters had any connections there, but Quinn may have. What do we know about the guy?"

"Not much. He was never a suspect." Brass took in a long breath he let out slowly. "I'm going to look into it," he said, his annoyance at having been fooled clear in his voice, "call the building site he was working on in Phoenix, see if they've heard from him since."

"Okay. I'll keep digging my end too – see if I can find a connection to San Diego. We're going to need more than lettering on a baseball cap to prove Quinn's involvement."

"Son of a bitch," Brass muttered under his breath. "All this time he sat there in my office and I never suspected a thing." There was a lengthy pause, and Grissom was ready to hang up when Brass spoke again. "So, like, a couple of hours ago maybe," he said, "I was home getting changed – don't ask – and Sara, well, she comes storming into the house, a face like thunder and a mood like I've not seen on her in a long time." Grissom closed his eyes wearily. "So, huh, I'm asking you 'cause…" Brass gave an uneasy laugh, "well, there was no way I was going to ask her. What's going on?"

Grissom didn't reply straightaway. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then with a long sigh leaned back in his chair. "She came over to the lab earlier."

Brass's chuckle was soft but knowing. "Let me guess. Not because she was missing your pretty face, was it?"

Grissom scoffed. "She…wanted to help out on the case."

"And you told her where to go."

"Not in so many words, no," Grissom replied, Brass's turn of phrase eliciting a smile. "But yeah, I did. And she didn't like it much."

"I'll bet," Brass said. "You know Sara, she doesn't like to be told what to do, but she'll come round."

"I wish I shared your confidence."

"You had no choice, you know that. The case and the integrity of the lab come first, always."

"Fat lot of good that does me now."

Brass paused. "You want me to talk to her?"

"About this?" he exclaimed. "God, Jim, no. If she knew I told you…"

"I can be discreet," Brass cut in. "She doesn't need to know I know anything." Brass paused, and wishing he'd never said anything, Grissom closed his eyes wearily. That was all he needed; an interfering, if well-meaning, Brass on the case. Sara would never forgive him. "Leave it to me," Brass went on, "I think I know what to do," and before Grissom could object disconnected the call.

Grissom hung up and stared at his receiver with disbelief, then reached inside his pocket for his cell. He found Sara's number and connected the call, which as he expected went straight to voicemail. Her message played, short and chirpy, making his guilt further tug at his heart, before he heard the tell-tale beep indicating it was his turn to talk.

But the words didn't come, not straightaway, and he felt time and his opportunity slip away, and even if he hung up now she would know he had called and not left a message. "Sara, it's me," he said finally, in a quiet voice, and paused and with a sigh wiped his hand down his face. "I―I just wanted to say that…that I'm sorry for what happened earlier. I―I…" Unable to finish his thought, he paused again. "Meet me at the park, please? We need to talk."

He put his cell on the desk, within quick reach, then turned back to his work, the remaining of shift creeping up on him faster than he'd expected. He tried calling the cell number he got for Quinn, but the call went straight to voicemail and needless to say he didn't leave a message. He would try to get a court order for Quinn's phone records and tracking of its location, but he knew what little evidence he had to show the judge was circumstantial at best and his request unlikely to be granted. Still, there was no harm in getting the paperwork prepared.

"Well, Grissom, I'm off."

Grissom looked up with a start at Greg standing at his open door, checked his watch and pushed to his feet. He gathered the papers he'd been working on and reached for his briefcase, slipping them in. Time had got away from him, but if he wanted to catch Sara at the park he needed to leave now. He had a feeling that if he failed to turn up on time she wouldn't wait for him.

"Have you heard from Sara?" Greg asked.

Grissom shook his head. "Have you?"

"No."

Grissom nodded, then shut his briefcase and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

"You were right," Greg said, stepping into the office.

Grissom looked up with surprise. Was Greg talking about the case? "Right about what?" he asked.

"Keeping Sara off the case – even if she doesn't like it. It was the right thing to do."

Grissom sighed. "Yeah, well. Maybe I could have handled it better."

"Just say sorry," Greg said, and shrugged, "Works for me."

Grissom smiled. It would take a lot more than a sorry to make things better between them, he thought, but Greg's kindness was touching. "Thanks, Greg."

Grissom didn't drive straight to the park, but stopped on the way to run a couple of errands. He'd need more than just an apology if he were to get back in Sara's good books, and he hoped she would appreciate what he had in mind. He parked the car in the lot adjacent to the park, took his paper and slowly trudged his way to the bench he had sat on that first time he and Sara had met at the park a little over a year ago.

He ran his hand over the bench's wooden seat and sat down, lifting his face skyward. The day was bright, the sun already warm on his skin and he wished he'd remembered to bring his hat. He opened his paper and pretended to read it, but his mind and eyes weren't on the task. When thirty minutes later she still hadn't materialised he knew she wasn't coming. With a heavy sigh, he folded his paper and stood up.

He was about to leave when tail beating Hank ambled over to him from behind the row of bougainvillea bushes nearby, his favourite red ball clamped firmly in his jaws. A wide smile instinctively forming on his face, Grissom crouched down and petted the dog warmly. Hank dropped his ball on the ground, and laughing he made a fuss of the dog. When he looked up Sara was standing there, watching them. She didn't talk, and neither did he.

Her hair was tied back in a ponytail tucked inside a ball cap, her eyes hidden behind wide sunglasses, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. She had her running gear on, Hank's lead in her hand and a small backpack slung over her shoulder. He hoped she wasn't thinking of going for a run when she'd only been out of hospital one day, but realising it wouldn't do his case any good he refrained from commenting.

Instead, he turned his attention back on his dog, picked up the slobbery ball, and standing up tossed it high and long across the field in front of them. Hank took off at a sprint after it, and after watching the scene fondly for a moment Grissom turned back to Sara.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Well, I wasn't going to, but Hank had other ideas."

Grissom smiled, glanced toward Hank who ball in mouth was slowly running back to them. Sara lowered the backpack off her shoulder and held it out for Grissom to take.

"They're Hank's things," she said. "I thought you'd need them."

Grissom's heart sank. She'd only come to deliver the dog back to him, and nothing else, preferring to do that at the park in neutral territory rather than at his condo. With a hard swallow he nodded his head and took the bag from her. Hank dropped the ball at his feet and gave a joyful bark, and his smile briefly returning Grissom happily obliged.

"I'm meeting the guys later today," she said, "and I thought it'd be better if Hank stayed with you."

Slowly, resignedly, he gave her a nod. Hank returned, this time dropping the ball at Sara's feet. She gave the dog a sad smile and reached down to stroke him on the snout before bending down for the ball and tossing it back out for him. It felt like two estranged parents sharing a common love and custody of their child, awkward and acrimonious. It broke his heart.

"Sara, I am sorry about what happened before, at the lab," he said tentatively.

"Yeah, you said."

"What I said―"

"What was said was said," she cut in quietly. "We can't take it back."

He turned toward her, but she was watching Hank. "I'd like to think I could take some of what I said back."

She met his gaze. "Some of it?"

He shrugged. "You want to go grab some breakfast?"

She shook her head. "I ate something before I came."

"Dinner, then. Tonight," he tried again. "Come to dinner please. We can talk then."

"I don't think so." The sunglasses hid her eyes, but the slight tremor in her voice as she refused his invitation belied her true feelings. She was hurting as much as he was, but was too proud, or still too angry, to accept his apology. She turned to look at Hank who was lying down on the grass, panting, a few feet away from them, the red ball discarded nearby. "I've got to go," she said, and took a step away.

"Wait!" Grissom exclaimed suddenly as he saw his chance slipping away, and fished the key he'd had cut for her out of his pants pocket, "I want you to have this."

He looked up and held out the key to her. He'd carefully chosen a key ring to go with it, a handmade starfish silver charm over a plain silver disk with her name hand-stamped on it. He'd planned to give it to her on the anniversary of their first proper romantic date, but now seemed more appropriate. It hadn't been expensive, and he hoped she would like it and understand the symbolism behind the gift.

"What is it?" Sara asked with a frown.

"The key to my condo," he replied softly. Sara's eyes snapped up to his face, and he gave her a tentative smile. "The key to your home. If you still want it."

Sara kept her gaze on his face for a beat before she brought it back down to the key in his hand and pinched her lips, badly hiding her emotion. Wordlessly, he reached for her hand and placed the key in its palm before closing her fingers over it.

"It's yours," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You keep it for whenever you're ready to use it."

Sara looked up again, and it took all his strength and will power not to reach up his hands and slip her sunglasses off so he could look into her eyes.

"I'll be cooking dinner for eight," he added in the same wistful tone, daring a smile. "There'll be plenty for three." He stared at her a moment longer, and when she said nothing picked up Hank's backpack and lead, whistled softly for his beloved dog and slowly, grudgingly, went on his way.

He'd done what he could. Now it was up to her.


	19. Chapter 19

Even before he opened the front door he knew it was Sara. Hank's delight as he whined and paced behind the door gave it away, but his own feelings of joy and excitement were dampened by the fact that she'd rung the bell rather than used the key he'd given her to let herself in. She turned from looking at the car lot below, then removed her sunglasses, slid them inside her jacket pocket and reached down to return Hank's happy greeting.

"You're early," he stated simply, a wistful smile on his lips as he watched the happy scene between the two.

She glanced up. "One of my many faults," she replied, her tone quiet and solemn, and held his gaze.

"Come in," he said, his smile growing with relief, with anticipation, and took a step back.

Her eyes lowered to his robed self, then came back up to his face. She was two hours early and he'd only just come out of the shower after a fitful, few hours, sleep. Needless to say dinner was nowhere near ready.

"I'll just…go and finish getting ready," he said, suddenly self-conscious under her scrutiny.

Sara smiled, then nodded her head and stepped inside before closing the door after her and Hank. She was calmer, less angry and aggrieved, she certainly looked and sounded it, and he hoped this dinner would provide an opportunity to talk through their disagreement and then move forward with the rest of their lives.

As he hurriedly threw clothes on, he could hear the two of them interact for a moment then the room fell silent and idly he wondered at what she was doing. Her smile had been her only greeting, but he was happy to take it slow. She'd come, which is all that mattered right then.

When he returned, dressed in jeans and a sweater, Sara was sitting on the floor near the boxes and bags of her stuff he and Greg had salvaged from her apartment. He stopped dead in his tracks and watched as a sad, introspective look on her face, she slowly flicked through the content of one box before taking out the Entomology textbook he'd given to her for Christmas years ago and inspecting it.

After a moment, she looked over her shoulder at him and gave a small, watery smile. "I―I…" she cleared her throat, "I haven't thanked you for doing all this."

He shrugged. "Honey, you don't need to." His smile was soft and tentative, his words carefully chosen so that he could glean a clue as to her intentions as regards moving in with him. "I put your clothes away in the closet in the bedroom, and the smaller items of furniture that have been cleaned are at my mother's. The rest is still with the cleaning company."

Turning her attention back down to the book in her hand, Sara nodded her head. With a sigh she placed the book back inside the box and a small smile forming on her face took out her police scanner. "I can't believe you kept this!" she said with surprise, turning toward him.

He shrugged. "I thought you might want to get it fixed."

Briefly, she turned back to the device and put it away. "I don't need it anymore."

Grissom gave her a smile, then nodded his head in acquiescence of her words.

"This morning, after I got back to his from the park," she went on quietly, keeping her eyes on him, "Jim took me to my apartment building." She flicked her gaze to Hank lying on the rug nearby, sleeping, and swallowed. "We didn't go inside. It's all boarded up so we couldn't, but…we took a good look around, you know?" She looked up, met his gaze and shrugged a pitiful shoulder.

Seeing the emotion in her eyes, hearing it in her voice, tugged at Grissom's heartstrings. He felt for her, he really did. What she had gone through, was still going through, was distressing to him and he felt hardly equipped to deal with it and help her through it. But he would try. He'd try to be there for her any way he could, even if sometimes he had to make decisions on her behalf she disagreed with and for what he thought was the best.

Happy that she was finally opening up about her ordeal he didn't speak. He simply closed the distance between them and with a wince sat down on the floor next to her and Hank. As she continued to talk, his hand reached over to Hank, gently stroking his side.

"He told me about hearing of the fire from dispatch, about arriving at the scene when the fire was still raging, before they found me and got me out. He told me about calling you―"

Her voice broke and she swallowed. When she looked up and met his gaze, she had tears in her eyes and he held out his hand to her. Blinking her tears away, she took in a deep breath, reached for his hand like it was a lifeline and gave it a strong squeeze.

"―about the long wait in the hospital without news, without knowing, how frantic with worry you both were." She blew out a long breath. "Gil, it made me realise that…I wasn't the only one who suffered – who is suffering – because of the fire. I know you want to protect me, from harm, from more pain, but I'm fine." She used her free hand to wipe at her tears and gave a nervous laugh. "I'm fine now."

Grissom nodded his head and then gently tugged at her hand, pulling her toward him so he could take her into his arms. Sara fell into his embrace willingly and he closed his arms around her, holding her tightly to him and closing his eyes. They still hadn't talked about their fight, but they'd talked. They'd made a start, reached some kind of understanding. When they pulled apart from each other, they shared a warm, but somewhat self-conscious, smile and a chaste kiss on the lips.

Afterwards, Sara turned back to her boxes while Grissom stood up with a wince, headed to the kitchen to make them some tea. Throwing concerned glances over his shoulder, he put the kettle on, took two mugs out of the cupboard and put a lemon tea bag in each. He had wine in the fridge, but all in good time he thought.

Sara joined him at the kitchen and they took their tea to the lounge. Hank ambled over, hopeful eyes flicking between the two and the couch, asking to be allowed up onto it, and when neither Grissom nor Sara shifted over to make space for him took his forlorn self to the bedroom. Grissom felt bad for Hank, but he and Sara needed a little time alone without distractions.

"What happened to the photo I keep – kept," Sara amended with a hard swallow, "on my bedside?" She turned to look at Grissom. "The one of you and Hank."

He averted his gaze to his tea, blew at the steam before taking a careful sip. "It's still on your bedside," he said, bringing his gaze back to her. "Here."

Sara slowly nodded her head, then lowered her eyes to her bare feet propped up on the coffee table and took a sip of her tea.

He reached over and pushed her hair back from her face so he could look at her. "I know you're angry with what happened last night," he said softly.

She shook her head, looked at him. "I'm not angry," she defended quietly. "Not anymore."

"Still," he insisted, dropping his hand. "I could have handled it better. I could have – _should_ have – chosen my words carefully. But honey," he went on, just as gently, "The rules are the rules. I can't have you working the case at all, I'm sorry. Surely you understand that."

Sara sighed, nodded her head at him. "I do. If I dug my heels in it's because…well, I felt you were treating me unfairly―"

"Unfairly?" he questioned with puzzlement.

"Differently then. Differently than you would have treated the others."

"How so?" he asked, his confusion intensifying. He didn't think he was treating her any differently than the rest of the team, quite the opposite in fact, he went out of his way _not_ to. "I'd have acted the same way with Nick or Warrick―"

"Catherine too?"

His face registered surprise. "Yes. Catherine too."

Sara pulled a disbelieving face. Then she lowered her feet off the coffee table and shifting on the couch met his gaze dead on. "This is us being honest with each other, right?"

Grissom's brow rose, then pinched apprehensively. "I guess so," he said uncertainly, wondering what other grievance she was about to bring up. And then when she didn't say anything, "Sara?"

"You're a hypocrite," she said suddenly, but quietly, matter-of-factly. There was no anger in her voice, just conviction and certitude, as if she'd been waiting to tell him for a long time.

"A what?" he laughed, incredulous, but surprised too that she should think that of him.

"A hypocrite," she repeated, her brow raised in defiance, daring him to object and deny it. Knowing she must have evidence to back up her claim he wisely kept his mouth shut, and she didn't disappoint. "How many times have you let Catherine work a case she was personally involved in, huh?" His mouth opened but before he could get a word out she added, "And you're just as bad."

He reached over to set his tea down on the coffee table and turned toward her. "I beg your pardon?"

Sara's brow rose even higher. "Lady Heather?"

"Don't bring Heather into this," he said, affronted now, "She has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn't she?" she retorted, her voice rising in animation rather than anger. "I think she validates my point exactly. You know her personally, and still you investigated her daughter's murder. Talk about conflict of interest and for the good of the lab. And don't tell me it's not the same," she went on, taking the words right out of his mouth, "because it seems to me it's one rule for one and another for the rest of us. Well, except Catherine."

Grissom was having a lot more fun than he'd had in a long time. Seeing her so vibrant, so enthusiastic and full of conviction despite the topic in hand was such a relief, such a turn-on. Once again he opened his mouth to object, but he found no arguments to refute her claim and all that came out was a long exhale of air. "Okay, you win," he said, a smile twitching at his lips as he opened his hands in surrender, "I'm a hypocrite. I can live with it. But you're still not working this case."

Smiling too, Sara gave his arm a not-so-playful punch. "You're involved too," she insisted, "and still you allow yourself to work the case."

God, when would she give up? "It's hardly the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

He sighed and stared at her earnestly as he pondered his reply. "When Nick got taken," he said, "We all worked the case."

Her gaze becoming distant, Sara gave a strange smile, one he didn't fully understand.

"Your ordeal didn't happen to me, Sara," he insisted, and she refocused. "I didn't almost die in that fire. _You_ did." His head tilting to the side, he reached his hand to stroke her face. She didn't pull back. "I can keep things, events, compartmentalised."

"And I can't?"

"Not always no, and that's the truth, and you know it," he added softly, and sighed. How could he make her see that what he was doing was for the best? "Sara, honey, I can't have you get involved in the case, not like you would like, and deep down you know it or you wouldn't be throwing the book at me." Again he paused, this time to give his words emphasis. "But what I _can_ do is keep you better informed. Last night, you said I was deliberately keeping you in the dark. And maybe I was, but it wasn't deliberate."

Sara watched him closely for a moment before nodding her head at him and shifting closer on the couch. Instinctively, Grissom opened his arm out, easing her into his embrace. With a long sigh, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed his eyes.

"I was thinking that maybe I should step down, or move to another shift," he said after a moment in companionable silence.

"No, absolutely not," she said, pulling back from him abruptly and looking shocked at the prospect. "I don't want you to do that. It wouldn't be fair on anyone. You're a good supervisor, the best, you care about the victims and about the people you work with." A twinkle of mischief flashed in her eyes. "Most of the time I'm fine with you being boss. But sometimes like last night when it feels like you treat me differently than the others, when it feels like you treat me like your girlfriend rather than a colleague, then I'll…" she shrugged and smiled, "let you know."

His face lit up with amusement, and he shook his head. "So, huh, does that mean you're staying for dinner?"

Her smile was wide and dancing. "If the offer still stands."

"Oh, it does," he replied with a gleeful smile of his own.

Their expressions sobering, they watched one another for a beat before closing the distance and sealing their newfound truce with a long, languorous and heartfelt kiss. Grissom's stomach had other ideas though, and when it made its presence known they pulled apart from each other and laughed.

In a silent accord they moved to the kitchen, and while Sara set the table and put a little background music on Grissom put a pan of salted water on the boil for the noodles and set about preparing vegetables for his stir-fry. He was finely chopping a spring onion when Sara joined him at the counter. She found a knife, and wordlessly he moved over to make space for her alongside him at the cutting board. Attracted by the noise, Hank returned, taking his position at their feet.

They'd cooked this meal together many times over the previous months, and with a complicit look and smile in his direction she began cutting a pepper in half, deseeding it and slicing it in long thin strips, and again Grissom found himself hoping that they had truly put their disagreement behind them and that she would indeed be moving in with him soon.

"How did it go with the guys?" he asked, shovelling a forkful of noodles into his mouth. "My ears have just about cooled down."

"It was just Greg and Nick," she said, chewing, and shrugged. "The camp was divided."

"I bet I can guess who was in _your_ camp," he scoffed.

She drank a little wine. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" she replied, putting the glass down. "But no. Greg totally agreed with you. Nick on the other hand…well, he thought you'd treated me unfairly, just like he thought you'd treated him unfairly with the Kelly Gordon stuff."

Grissom's face darkened, and he stopped chewing. "Well, at least I'm consistent."

"The thing is," Sara said, "I agreed with you then, didn't I? I thought that what you did then was in his best interest."

"There you have it," Grissom said, pointing his fork at her, "My point entirely."

Sara pulled a face at him, then returned to eating her food and he did the same. They were eating dessert when Grissom's house phone rang. Startling, Grissom turned toward it, but made no move to answer the call. _Please, don't let it be work_, he thought, and by the looks of it Sara shared his fear.

"You on call?" she asked, when the outgoing message began to play.

"No," Grissom mumbled, tensely waiting to know the caller's identity. He didn't have long to wait.

"Gil, it's me, Brass. I know you're there. With Sara," Brass added quite pointedly. "I'm sorry to have to break up the party but anyways…if you get this message within the next half-hour or so, get your ass over to PD." Grissom's eyes were on the phone as he listened to Brass but Sara's were fixed on him. "The BOLO I put on Quinn's truck paid off. I got him in custody as we speak and thought you'd want in on the interview." There was a brief pause, and with a sigh, Grissom flicked his gaze over at Sara who was watching him intently. "It's your call," Brass added, before the line went dead.

Grissom sighed. It was his call indeed. But if he went – and he really wanted to – Sara would want to go too.

And did he want that?


	20. Chapter 20

"Who's Quinn?" Sara asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them.

Grissom met her gaze. "Heather's boyfriend," he replied, absently lifting his glass of wine before putting it back down without drinking from it. He'd had one glass already, any more and he'd be over the limit, if indeed he decided to go.

Sara nodded. Then her gaze became distant, as if she was trying to recall a memory, before she refocused, picked up her spoon and used it to cut into her tartlet. "You think he's involved?" she asked, glancing up as she brought the spoon to her mouth.

She'd aimed for a casual tone, but her desperation for details on the case came through nonetheless. He sighed, hesitating briefly as he pondered how much to share. But he'd promised to keep her updated and he would. Did she even know it was Leah in the morgue and not Heather?

"Not in the murder, no," he answered truthfully, and resumed eating his dessert as he spoke. "His alibi checked out. He's a contractor, and he was working on a site in Phoenix. He couldn't have driven back in time." He paused, swallowed his mouthful. "But we think he knows where Heather's hiding."

Sara nodded her head, and idly he wondered who had told her about the mix-up in the morgue – Greg, Nick, or even Brass. Did it even matter?

"We know she left alone," he went on, "and CCTV footage from the airport shows Heather and a man, a man fitting Quinn's description and wearing a ball cap with the name and logo of his construction business on it."

Sara's face pursed thoughtfully. "So what are you waiting for?" she asked, and glanced at the wall clock. "Time's a-ticking."

He shrugged, playing it cool. "I haven't made up my mind whether I'm going or not yet," he said, amazed that she hadn't yet put her shoes on and made a grab for her purse and jacket.

"Of course you're going."

"And you're not?" he asked, badly covering his surprise.

"No." She gave him a beaming smile. "I'm going to stay here with Hank, and wait."

Grissom frowned and stared at her in disbelief.

"You don't think I'll be able to stop myself, do you?" she laughed and reached for her wine. "That I'll jump in my car and make my own way there?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Well, you're wrong," she said. "I'm going to listen to my boss for once." She raised her glass to him. "I'll finish my wine, take Hank for a walk and then fill up some of that empty space with my stuff."

Grissom's face softened with love and affection at what she was implying, namely that she was still happy to move in with him. Still, he knew that if she had the choice she'd pick going with him in a heartbeat. Would it hurt if he allowed her to come and watch the interview?

"Unless, of course, you've changed your mind," she added when he kept silent and took a sip of her wine.

"About you moving in?" he asked, refocusing with a smile. "I haven't changed my mind."

Sara's smile broadened. "Then I have a lot to do."

Grissom didn't need to be told twice. Smiling widely, he picked up his glass, raised it to her and they clinked. Then setting it down without drinking from it, he stood up and began gathering plates and cutlery.

"Leave all that," she said, pushing to her feet too. "If you don't leave now, Jim'll start without you."

Grissom paused and looked at her. "You sure?"

"Absolutely." And amazingly, he thought, she looked it too.

"All right. I'll be gone a couple of hours, tops."

"I'll wait up," she said, her smile as mischievous as the twinkle in her eyes.

He found his cell, dialled Brass's number and left a message telling him he was on his way. As he spoke, he rushed over to the bedroom where he swapped his old sweatshirt for a button down shirt and his jeans for work pants. He pulled on a pair of socks, his work shoes and a jacket.

When he got back to the main room, the table was clear and Sara was stacking dishes in the dishwasher. He had kind of expected her to be waiting at the door, purse in hand and ready to go, but no, she was surprisingly keeping to her word without looking peeved about it. Hank ambled over to him and gave a whine.

"I'll be back soon," he said, reaching down to ruffle him between the ears, "You stay with Sara."

Sara looked over at them, and he smiled at her, then grabbed his car keys and wallet from the sideboard and made a dash for the door. He had his hand on the handle when he turned around and hurriedly retraced his steps back to her. "I won't be long," he said, and kissed her cheek goodbye.

Visibly taken aback by his gesture, she gave him a soft smile. "I'll still be here."

He gave her a nod, then made for the door again, opened it and stopped, standing motionless for a beat before he turned around. Leaning against the counter, Sara was drying her hands on a dish cloth and watching him. This wasn't right. This wasn't her; it was a part she was playing. It wasn't right for her to be so docile, so compliant. It wasn't who she was. It wasn't the Sara he loved. The balance had shifted, but it had shifted too much toward the other side. It unnerved him, made him feel ill-at-ease and uncomfortable.

"Come on," he said, and sighed. "Grab your purse. You're coming with."

Sara's face lit up. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. As long as you promise not to interfere you can watch behind the two-way mirror." Sara held up three fingers in the iconic hand gesture, and he scoffed. "You were never in the scouts."

"True," she said, a wide smile dancing as purse and jacket in hand she forced her feet into her flats and much to Hank's chagrin followed Grissom out of the door.

The drive over to PD was short, but in that time Grissom managed to bring Sara up to date with what they knew so far, which all things considered wasn't much. They found a parking space in the visitor's lot at the front and quickly made their way indoors. After signing in at the front desk, they headed to Brass's office. Thankfully they didn't come across anyone from the crime lab, and to anybody else happening to notice them they looked like they were there on business.

Brass stood at his desk, on the phone, a smirk forming and his brow rising in a silent question when they stepped through his open door. Grissom and Sara shared a look and a smile while the captain wound up his call.

"So," Brass told Grissom, nodding toward Sara, as he hung up his phone, "Changed your mind, did you?"

Grissom shrugged. "She promised to behave herself."

Brass pinched his lips to stifle his amusement. "And that worked, did it?"

Grissom eased a glance in Sara's direction. "She…made some strong points."

Brass flicked his gaze to Sara who simply lifted her shoulder in a shrug. "_She_," she told Brass, deliberately emphasising the pronoun, "promised to keep her mouth shut."

Grissom fixed Sara with a dark frown. "And watch from behind the glass."

"Anyways," Brass said, before they got into another argument. "As I said on the phone I got Quinn in custody. Patrol spotted his truck and stopped him. He'd had a few, so they booked him, brought him in. I think him being the worse for wear will work to our advantage. He's been processed so we got his prints. He thinks he's been held on a DUI charge."

"Is he fit enough to be interviewed?" Grissom asked.

"He's having some coffee." Brass picked up an evidence bag from his desk, held it out to Grissom to view. "That's the ball cap in question. He was wearing it when he got stopped."

Grissom stared at the cap in detail. "Certainly looks the same," he said, passing it to Sara.

With a nod, Brass took a file from his desk and then the bagged cap from Sara. "Shall we? The coffee should have kicked in by now."

The trio filed out of Brass's office, headed directly to the interview room. Sara took her place behind the two-way mirror without protest while Grissom and Brass went inside. Quinn sat slumped at the table with his head resting on his forearm. He looked to be dozing. A Styrofoam cup of coffee sat cooling in front of him. The uniformed officer that stood guard at the door acknowledged both Brass and Grissom with a nod, and then said, "He's on his second cup, Sir."

"Thanks, Polanski."

Grissom glanced over to the two-way mirror, then at Brass and followed him over to the table so they stood facing Quinn. "Mr Quinn," Brass called loudly, "I'm Captain Brass. You remember me, don't you?"

Quinn jerked awake and lifted his head off his arm. His eyes were barely open, bleary and hazy as he tried to focus on Brass. He was looking red and puffy in the face, and a trickle of drool was drying at the corner of his mouth. But more than that, he stank of sweat and neither he nor his clothes looked like they'd had a wash in days.

"And this is Gil Grissom from the crime lab," Brass finished, glancing at Grissom and raising his brow at Quinn's pitiful state.

Quinn's head lolled from side to side as he tried to look over in Grissom's direction.

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait?" Grissom asked Brass quietly.

"What? And miss the chance to trip him up? I don't think so. Besides," Brass added, speaking louder now for Quinn's benefit, "We only want to talk, right?"

"Right," Quinn agreed, in a hoarse and slurred voice.

Brass pulled back a chair and sat down on it, calmly placing the bagged ball cap and folder on the table between him and the suspect, while with a look toward the mirror Grissom took a seat next to him.

"So, Mr Quinn, tell us," Brass said, his tone jovial, "How much have you had to drink?"

Quinn scrunched up his face, as if mustering deep thought, but then thought better than answering. "You're trying to trick me, right?" he said, and chuckled inanely. "I know I shouldn't have been driving, but my truck's my home, you know? I was just looking for a quiet spot to crash for the night."

Brass turned toward Grissom and they shared a look before Brass spoke. "So, huh, I spoke to the foreman at the building site you were working on in Phoenix, and he tells me you've not been back?"

"I've been too upset to work, haven't I?" Quinn reached for the cup of coffee and drank from it before wincing in disgust. "Don't suppose I could get another one?"

Brass glanced at the uniformed officer at the door and nodded his head. "So, huh, where have you been for the last week?"

"Here and there."

"Here and there," Brass repeated, deadpan, glancing at Grissom out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Stopped jerking us around," Brass exclaimed suddenly, banging his fist on the table.

Brass's unexpected outburst had an immediate sobering effect on Quinn, who eyes wide jumped back in surprise. "I swear that's the truth," he replied animatedly. "I ain't got nowhere to go. Heather was my life. I keep seeing her in that fire…" His face contorted, and then repressing a gag reflex he brought his hand to his mouth.

"Where is she?" Brass asked, a little more aggressive now.

Quinn scrunched his eyes shut, then shook his head and reopened them wide. "What?"

"Heather," Brass repeated. "Where is she?"

Quinn's gaze flicked from Brass to Grissom and then back to Brass again. He was looking utterly bewildered. "You know where Heather is," he answered, gaze flicking between the two uncertainly, a deep frown now creasing his face. He wiped a rough hand over his mouth and sniffed loudly.

"No, we don't," Brass replied. "But you do, don't you?"

"I must have drunk more than I thought," Quinn muttered and used both hands to wipe up and down his face, as if trying to clear a vision. And then as once again he tried refocusing, "Are you two for real?"

Brass looked at Grissom. "Oh, we're for real, all right," he said, straight-faced.

Grissom piped up. "We have evidence to suggest that Heather's still alive and that you helped her out of Vegas."

Quinn shook his head. "What?"

The officer returned with a fresh cup of coffee he placed on the table within Quinn's reach. With a look at the officer, Quinn wrapped shaky hands around it and carried it to his mouth.

"Her sister, Leah," Grissom said, and Quinn refocused his eyes on him. "That's her in the morgue. We believe the fire was started to cover up her death. Not Heather's."

"Oh, my God," Quinn exclaimed suddenly, almost bouncing in his seat and spilling hot coffee over his hands. He dropped the cup onto the table and quickly wiped his hands onto his pant legs. "So Heather's alive?"

Brass pulled his folder back, then glanced at Grissom and rolled his eyes. "Isn't that what I just said?" he told him, and then addressing Quinn, "Yeah, and she's in the wind."

"And you think I know where she is?"

"We do," Grissom said.

Quinn's mouth opened, then shut, and he turned toward Brass. "I don't understand."

Brass opened the file in front of him, took out the top photograph, the CCTV footage of Heather at McCarran's entrance barrier, and turned it toward the suspect. Squinting, Quinn moved forward and stared at the picture with disbelief.

"Is this Heather?" Brass asked.

Quinn wordlessly nodded his head, and then remained silently staring at the picture for a long moment. "It must have been taken before she died," he then said, looking up at Brass and then at Grissom hopefully.

Brass shook his head. "It wasn't." He indicated the date and time stamp on the bottom left corner, and Quinn tried to focus his gaze onto it. "It was taken the evening of the fire." Brass removed a second photograph from the folder, one of Heather and the mystery guy almost embracing, and placed it on top of the other one. "You recognise that man?"

Quinn leaned right down with a frown. He stared at the image for a moment before realisation hit him."You think it's me?" he exclaimed, eyes wide as he snapped his head up.

"Isn't it?"

Quinn lowered his eyes back to the photograph and shook his head despondently. "No."

"This isn't your cap?" Grissom asked, feigning surprise as he tapped his finger on the photograph, before reaching for Brass's folder and flicking through the remaining pictures inside until he got to the close-up of the cap. He pulled it out and showed it to Quinn. "It's got your name and company logo on it."

Quinn swiped his hand over his messy hair, as if checking his cap was there. "I don't understand," he said again.

Brass picked up the evidence bag with Quinn's cap and placed it alongside the photograph. "Same cap, same man."

Quinn was shaking his head. With a sigh Grissom looked over at the two-way mirror, his brow arched quizzically. Was Sara thinking the same thing he was? That Quinn wasn't their man? But rather a pawn in some elaborate game?

He turned back to Quinn. "Are there others?"

"Others?" Quinn repeated with puzzlement.

"Ball caps like this one."

Brass frowned at Grissom who simply shrugged his shoulder back, while Quinn wiped a hand over his face, finished his coffee. "Yeah, there are," he then said, his voice low and sad, as the truth of what Heather had done began to sink in. "I got one in the truck still in its plastic wrapper, the rest I either gave away or lost."

Brass pulled a face. "If, as you say, this man isn't you, do you know who he is? A friend, a relation?"

Eyes downcast, Quinn shook his head.

"Did you…ever suspect Heather of having an affair?" Grissom asked.

Quinn looked up sharply. "No."

"A good looking girl like her, working at the Mediterranean, customers with a bit of brass," Brass piped up, "And you working away so much. You never worried she might…you know…stray?"

Quinn's face closed off. He shrugged. Brass and Grissom shared a look that said, "We're done here," and Brass began gathering the photographs back inside the folder. He and Grissom then stood up and Brass motioned to the guard who closed the distance to Quinn and forcefully helped him up to his feet.

"What's going to happen now?" Quinn asked.

"To you?"

Quinn nodded.

"You're facing a DUI charge. You're going to spend the night in the cell. I'll even throw in a nice warm shower for you. How about that?"

Quinn didn't reply. Head held low, he simply let himself be led out of the room.

"He wasn't faking it, was he?" Brass asked afterwards.

Grissom looked straight at the mirror and gave a half smile. "I don't think so."

When they came out, they found Sara waiting outside with her arms crossed over her chest and a deep frown on her face as she watched Quinn being led away. "I remember him," she said, turning toward the duo, "But I thought they'd broken up."

"How so?" Grissom asked.

"There was another guy since. I saw him a couple of times in the lot. He'd come to pick Heather up. Same type of man, except taller and broader, as if he worked out." Her gaze narrowed thoughtfully. "He was older, too. Big smile."

Grissom's brow furrowed. "Well, that's a lot for only seeing him a couple of times," he remarked dryly.

Sara smiled. "Memory's a gift."

Brass opened the folder, showed Sara one of the CCTV shots. "Is this him?"

Sara took a good look, shrugged her shoulder. "I think so." She turned to Grissom. "When you said Quinn was Heather's boyfriend I thought you meant _him_."

"So, we're back to square one," Brass muttered disgruntledly. "Damn it! I really thought he was it." He gave his head a shake.

"Captain?"

Brass turned toward the officer and motioned he wouldn't be a minute. "What's happening with you too now?" he then asked Grissom and Sara.

Grissom looked at Sara and smiled. "The night is still young," they told each other silently, and then together as they turned back to Brass, "We're going home."


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: I don't think we have much more to go story-wise. Thanks as always for reading, and read responsively - oops, I mean responsibly. This one is closer to M than T. Oh, and please leave a review afterwards!

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Grissom pulled up in his allocated parking spot, killed the engine and looked around the busy lot. At this time of the night most residents were in and parking space was scarce. "You can't keep parking outside Pedro's," he said, turning toward Sara with a soft smile, "Not now you're moving in. Full-time, I mean."

Stifling a yawn, Sara released her seatbelt and reached for her purse in the foot well. "I don't mind."

"Still," he insisted. "It's a five-minute walk away. It's not practical."

"It's fine. We can't run the risk of someone seeing my car here, you told me that."

He shrugged. "That was before. Now's different." He smiled and watched her musingly for a moment, and thinking that she was looking tired reached his hand across to stroke her face. Gently brushing his fingers to her cheekbone he almost leaned across to kiss her, but then thought better of it. They weren't two teenagers on their first, or even second, date. They had time, and comfort. He could make his move later. Lowering his hand, he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his car door. "I'll think of something," he added, referring to their parking arrangement, and got out.

Sara grabbed her purse and followed his cue. After locking the car, he gave her a happy smile and making the most of the cover of darkness slipped his hand in hers as together they made their way across the lot to the condo. At the front door, Sara closed her eyes suddenly, as if feeling dizzy or faint, and leaned forward into his shoulder, resting there for a moment before looking up and reopening her eyes. Her smile as she watched him was wan, and did nothing to assuage his worry. She was good at pretending that physically she was over the worst of her ordeal but he knew she had some way to go still.

"You okay?" he asked with concern, lifting their still joined hands and giving hers a warm squeeze.

Sara smiled wider, then nodded her head and reached forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Thank you," she said, "For letting me come to PD with you."

He shrugged a mild shoulder, knowing deep down – but not minding – that she'd had the better of him. Reverse psychology was what she'd used on him, and maybe he should have seen it coming and stood his ground. Still, no harm had been done. If anything, they now knew of a second boyfriend on the scene. One that by all accounts was memorable and easy on the eye, he recalled touchily. Hank yelped, refocusing him, then barked and began scratching at the door.

"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door as he reached inside his pocket for his house keys, "We should go in, before he does too much damage."

He was lifting his key to the lock when Sara covered his hand, stopping him.

"Let me," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching teasingly, and dropping his hand fished inside her purse for her own key. His frown morphed into a wide, gleeful smile, the symbolism of her gesture not lost on him. She pulled the key out and with a quick glance in his direction slotted it into the lock. It turned, and Hank's scratching intensified. "It works," Sara marvelled, her voice dripping with mock-disbelief.

Grissom shook his head at her teasing, then without further ado pushed the door open. Hank slipped out, yelping and whining as tail beating wildly he briefly stopped at their feet to bestow them a friendly welcome before thinking better of it and making straight for the lot.

Grissom chuckled. "I should take him for a walk," he said, somewhat resignedly, his gaze following Hank's progress. "I don't think a sniff round the lot will do this time."

Sara stepped inside and dropping her purse to the ground slipped off her shoes. "You want me to come?"

Grissom shook his head. "You look beat." He grabbed Hank's lead from the hook near the door. "I won't be long."

Sara gave him a wan nod, and with one last lingering look he closed the door and went in search of Hank, finding him sniffing at a car tyre. "Come on," he told him, clipping the lead to his collar and giving it a firm tug, pulling Hank away from the car, "let's go. And let's be quick about it."

As it turned out, Hank had other ideas and they didn't get back to the condo for nearly forty-five minutes. Within that time, content to walk at Hank's leisurely and inquisitive pace, Grissom let his mind wander, thoughts of Sara finally moving in with him intermingling with thoughts of Heather Clarke and the secret life they were hopefully getting closer to unravelling.

When he and Hank let themselves in, quiet music played over the stereo and the sidelight was on in the lounge but Sara was nowhere to be seen or heard. Hank made a beeline for his water bowl while taking his shoes and jacket off Grissom cast a look around. Sara had emptied a few boxes that now lay flattened near the door and filled the shelves with their content. Books, CDs and picture frames as well as a few ornaments and memories collected over the years now shared his space.

He poured himself a glass of water, drank half and took the rest to the bedroom. The door was ajar and the bedside lamp was on. Sara sat at the edge of the bed, silent and motionless, with her back to him and her head bent forward. Next to her lay the shoebox of memories he'd rescued from the back of her bedroom closet in her apartment. The lid sat discarded nearby, a few scattered papers and photographs inside it, and he knew that what she was staring at so intently had taken her back to a distant past.

Should he turn back and give her some time alone, or go and sit beside her and offer whatever support he could?

Already curled up at the foot of the bed, Hank looked up toward him rooted to the spot at the threshold and ears twitching flicked his gaze to Sara before bringing it back to him pointedly, concernedly. It was true that dogs picked up on their masters' moods, and Grissom shared in Hank's worry. His heart ached for her, for what he knew she was feeling, and yet again he was glad the box, evidence of her past, however painful it may be, had been spared from fire damage and destruction.

Inside the box were some of her most treasured possessions – legal documents and letters, as well as diplomas and certificates she had worked damn hard for, and the few photographs of her childhood she had managed to hold on to. A couple were of the happier foster homes she had been sent to, of foster brothers and sisters she had lost touch with a long time ago, but most were of times before all that when her childhood, despite being far from happy, had still been fairly…normal and steady.

Hank gave a little whine, refocusing Grissom. The dog's expression as he looked over at Sara clearly told Grissom to stop dithering; that he, himself, wasn't doing the trick and that she needed _him_ by her side. At the same moment, Sara turned toward him. Even in the dim bedroom light, her eyes shone with unshed tears, and she gave him a tremulous smile he returned shyly as finally, quickly, he walked round the bed, covering the distance to her.

After putting his glass down on the bedside table, he sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. A long breath escaping, Sara leaned her head against him and closed her eyes, and tightening the hold he had on her he looked down at the trembling letter and envelope in her hand. He hadn't seen it before and couldn't make out the text which barely filled the first page and was signed, "Mom."

"This is the only letter my mother ever sent me," Sara said after a while, speaking in a hoarse and choked-up voice. Grissom dipped his head to look at her but her eyes were on the letter in her hand and she kept them there. A tear fell, and Sara wiped at her eyes. "In it she says she's sorry for breaking up my home." She looked up abruptly. "She never said sorry for what she did to my father – but she was sorry for what it did to me. That counts for something, right?"

Grissom took in a deep breath and nodded his head slowly. "She loved you," he said softly. "However misguided it may appear now, maybe she felt like she didn't have a choice. Like what she did was for the best."

Holding his gaze, Sara nodded her head, then wiped at her eyes again and folded the letter back inside the envelope and put it back in the box.

"Maybe," Grissom said hesitantly, "You should…try to look her up, seek her out. It's been a long time."

Sara paused as she thought his words over, but didn't reply. She just kept her back to him as she resumed looking through the box on her other side, the ghost of a smile suddenly lighting her features as she pulled something else out. Grissom slowly dragged his eyes from her face to her discovery, he too smiling at the lanky teen moodily staring back at them. He'd never seen the photograph before.

Sara wore cut-off jeans shorts and a plain red T-Shirt that accentuated her long, skinny limbs. Her hair hung loose, short and messy. She was sitting on a faded flowery couch, bare legs tucked up under her and an open book on a fringe cushion in her lap. It was a candid shot, as if someone had called her name and taken the picture as soon as she'd looked up. She wasn't smiling. There was a gravity, a sadness in her eyes that was beyond her years and that tugged at his heart.

"How old were you there?" he asked with surprise, with interest, as he leaned in to take a closer look.

Sara turned the picture over, checking for a date which was written in her own handwriting. "Fifteen," she said, looking up, and he glimpsed that same sadness and gravity in her gaze now.

"Was that a pimple on your chin?"

A slow smile crept across her lips, dissipating some of that sadness, and she slowly shook her head in disbelief, his mild taunt having the intended effect of lightening the mood. Enough reminiscing, he thought, it wasn't doing her any good. Grissom prised the picture out of her hand and reached across her to place it back in the box. Then he brought his gaze back up and lifted his hand to her face, stroking her cheek before gently brushing her hair behind her ear.

"You have a home now, Sara. With me," he said in a whisper, holding her gaze, and smiled at her ever so gently, ever so lovingly before leaning forward and teasing his lips to hers. "I love you."

He pulled back and stared at her earnestly, wanting her, _needing_ her, to believe his words – words he didn't profess nearly often enough but meant with every beat of his heart. Tears formed in Sara's eyes, hovering in the corners, poised and ready to fall, but she held on to them and smiled before closing the distance to him and pressing her lips to his.

"And I love you," she whispered almost inaudibly, her voice full of emotion.

Grissom licked his bottom lip nervously, then slowly inched forward and kissed her. The kiss, soft and slow at first, soon took a life of its own as hands came up to frame the other one's face and tongues met, hungrily deepening it. Hank shifted on the bed, standing up and yawning loudly before lying back down, and laughing they pulled back from each other.

They watched each other for a beat longer, their eyes as soft and complicit as their smiles, before in unspoken accord Grissom got off the bed while Sara turned back to her box and carefully put everything back inside it. Loath for the evening to end like this, Grissom moved to the bedroom door and did his usual trick of whistling for Hank to come so he could shut the door on him.

The dog glanced up toward him, twitched an ear, then looking over at Sara owered his head back onto the bed and closed his eyes. His message was clear; I like it here with the two of you, thank you very much. Sara pinched her lips, badly stifling her amusement, while face pursed in annoyance Grissom strode back to his dog. Grabbing him by the collar, he shifted him off the bed until Hank got the message and after a vigorous shake grudgingly took himself out of the room, the door swiftly shutting behind him.

Sara moved her shoebox out of the way onto the chest of drawers, then slowly covered the distance to Grissom watching hesitantly from the door, while undoing, one by one, the buttons on her blouse and returning his stare unwaveringly. The sadness and melancholy in her striking brown eyes was gone, replaced by mischief and longing. All her life she'd longed for a home, longed to belong and be part of a loving family, and he would provide both for her.

She dropped her hands to her side and stopped a foot away from him, and he slipped his hands under her open blouse, sliding it off her shoulders and onto the floor without ceremony. Her hands moved to her back, deftly unhooking her bra before pulling the straps off her shoulders and discarding the bra on top of the blouse. Her gaze never left his. Her chest was heaving as her breaths came in slow, short rasps. Her tongue came out, licking at the corner of her mouth.

The breath caught in his chest. God, she was so beautiful, so alluring and desirable. She'd turned and kept turning his world around. He looked up to her face again, her wanton expression, his body responding with a surge of desire so intense it was almost painful. Gazes locked, he took her by the wrists and swapped places with her in a melodic dance so he could pin her against the door. He would make to love her, but more than that he would show her how loved and treasured she was.

Holding her arms up above her head, Grissom took her mouth in a searing kiss she returned with equal fervour, before beginning a slow but hungry wander down to her neck, her throat and collar bone, the creamy flesh of her breasts. He sucked and licked and nipped all the while trying to curb his own passion, his own instinctive need for release, Sara's low moans and groans as she writhed and trembled under his touch fuel to his fire.

"Let me touch you," he heard her say in a breathless gasp, and pulling back he looked up at her with surprise. "I want to be able to touch you."

She was breathing hard as she looked down to him, dark eyes full of love and yearning, but frustration too, and he understood her underlying message; that she wanted to give as much as she took, pleasure him as much as he did her, both equal in this. He let go of her wrists and she lowered her hands to his face, coaxing him up, seeking his mouth.

One hand moved to cup her face and deepen the kiss while his other hand skimmed over her breast, teasing his fingers over the nipple, causing her to moan into his mouth. Sara threw her head back and he lowered his mouth to her neck, her chest and breast, her hands clinging to the back of his head, in turn stroking and tugging through his hair as she pulled him closer to her, needing and wanting. It wasn't long until she pulled him back up, her mouth once again rooting for his until their lips met in a passionate, lust-filled groan.

She couldn't get enough of him, and him her.

As they kissed, Sara unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled his tee-shirt out of the waistband of his pants and slipped her hands underneath it, stroking up his sides to his chest, his back and shoulders. Quickly, hurriedly, he got rid of the shirt and undid his pants fastening, then broke the kiss long enough to pull the tee-shirt over his head. She wanted to touch him? Then let there be no barriers.

The rest of their clothing soon discarded, they moved to the bed. He eased her down onto her back and stood over her, feasting his eyes with her beauty. His right hand moved of its own accord to touch the curve of her breast, hard and pert, his fingertips brushing down the small swell of her stomach to the soft triangle of black hairs.

Her chest heaved faster at his touch, her breathing quickening with every teasing stroke of his fingers on her skin, hitching until it came out as quick, craving, aching pants. He smiled as again he let his eyes run free, brushing, stroking, kissing every inch of her before closing them at the overwhelming surge of desire that threatened to overcome him.

Sara reached up for him, her hands on his ass, her mouth on his, his chin and neck and shoulder, and he fell forward, pushing himself up against the bed so as not to crush her. She slid her legs between his, her sex coming tantalisingly close to his erection, and trailed kisses to his chest, his nipples and stomach while her hands stroked his buttocks, the back of his legs and in between.

When he could stand it no more, he slowly prised her legs apart and stepped inside, and raising her pelvis she wrapped them around his midriff while he eased himself inside her. Their lovemaking was slow, intense and loving. They kept their eyes open all the while, locked, as they moved as one in the dim light, perfectly in sync with each other.

As afterwards, spent and breathless, they lay in each other's arms Grissom let the feeling of peace and warmth and closeness envelop him. He felt close to her, closer than he'd ever felt with another human being. He wanted to be her home, but realised that more importantly she was _his_.

When some time later he felt himself finally drifting off to sleep, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and reached over to turn off the light. He shifted onto his side, pressing himself deeper into bed and Sara closer to him. He was almost gone when he felt her tense before she pulled out of his grasp and sat up in bed.

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked, reaching for the bedside light switch as he pushed up onto his elbow.

Sara's eyes were narrowed and downcast as she stared into nothingness.

"Sara?" he tried again softly, and touched a gentle hand to her shoulder.

Eyes still narrowed, she looked up sharply. "I've just remembered," she said, finally meeting his concerned gaze. "He wore a navy LVFD T-shirt."

It was Grissom's turn to frown. "Who did?" he asked, puzzled.

"Heather's boyfriend," Sara replied, her voice sounding distant as if trying to recall.

Grissom frowned, then twisted his mouth in a pout, slightly peeved that she should be thinking of him at such an intimate time before fully processing what she'd just said and sitting up straighter. Did she think Heather's boyfriend worked for the fire department?

"Anyone can get their hands on tee-shirts like these," he said, and Sara refocused on him with an uncertain nod.

He lay back down, gently coaxing her down with him and wrapping an arm around her shoulders before he reached back and once again turned the light off. With a sigh, Sara settled herself against him again, but they both stayed awake for a long time afterwards, Sara trying to remember more and him thinking of the possibilities.


	22. Chapter 22

The lightest of caresses skimmed against his skin, and repressing a shiver Grissom instinctively pulled the bed sheet higher and tighter over him. It was as though a soft, cool breeze was stroking up and down his arm, all the way to his shoulder. It lingered there in the crook of his neck before lightly brushing against his mouth, the hollow of his cheeks, gently tracing all around his eyes, his face, slowly but surely awakening the whole of his body.

A smile formed on his lips as he stirred in his sleep, rolling onto his back. Sinking deeper into the mattress, he let out a long blissful sigh. The gentle caress made way to the warm breath of lips, one that tickled every nerve ending in his body, sending delectable shivers down his spine and slowly rekindling the still-smouldering fire in the pit of his stomach. A soft moan escaping his parted lips, he buried his head deeper in the pillow, unconsciously opening up his body to the touch.

Her hands, her lips, her mouth, on him, around him while his body roused and trembled deliciously. When he came it was fast and hard, uncontrolled. Fully awake now, he slowly opened his eyes, turned his head to the side and with a smile stared at the most wondrous sight. The room was bathed in partial darkness, but the thin ray of early morning sunlight slanting into the room through the gap in the curtains gave Sara an almost ethereal look.

"Mmm," he purred, his smile broadening contentedly. "That was…unexpected."

Smiling widely, Sara pressed a gentle kiss to his chest. "Unexpected?" she queried with a frown, looking back up.

"Pleasantly unexpected," he amended, playfully tapping the tip of his finger to her nose.

Sara lay down fully, nuzzling in the crook of his shoulder and draping an arm over him. He wrapped the arm she was laying on around her and rested his hand on the curve of her bottom, his fingers instinctively, lightly, stroking up and down it. With his other hand he used the bed sheet to clean himself with.

"If you're not careful," he said, "I might just get used to it and demand to be woken up like this every day."

Her gaze flicked up to his face. "It was to say sorry."

"Sorry?" He frowned. "Whatever for?"

"Last night," she said, pushing up on her elbow and trailing a lazy finger through the hairs on his chest. She glanced up and shrugged. "I―well, I kind of felt bad, you know, thinking about work, about the case, when we'd only just," she shrugged again, "had such a nice time."

He scoffed. "A nice time, huh?"

Her smile as she teased a finger around his nipple was wide and devilish. "The best time."

Grissom picked up her hand and stilled it. "Your timing could have been better," he lamented, his face twisted into a pout.

Sara's face softened lovingly on recognising Grissom's change of mood for what it was; insecurity with a dash of jealously. "I promise to work on it."

He pretended to mull it over. "Well, the guy sure made a lasting impression on you." He paused, done with the pretence, as his mind once again turned to the case. "Do you think you'd recognise him?"

"You want the truthful answer?"

A smile breaking across his face Grissom shifted suddenly, rolling Sara onto her back with him on top. His smile fading into a solemn, rather sad and wistful expression, he swallowed and used both his hands to brush her hair back from her eyes. "Oh, Sara, if I were a younger man..."

"I don't want a younger man," she said, holding his gaze steadily, and reached up to kiss him on the mouth, "I want you. I've always wanted you." A smile formed, tugging at her lips. "But yes, if I saw him again I would recognise him."

"Good," he said, nodding, "I've thought of something." Sara cocked her brow in a silent question, but his bladder chose that moment to remind him it was full and he rolled off her instead. "I'll tell you over breakfast," he said, getting out of bed. "For now, I'm going to grab a shower and clean up this sticky mess."

Sara's playful smile returned, her eyes flicking down to his bare self appraisingly before coming back to his face. He pursed his face, feigning annoyance that she should be evaluating him like a piece of meat, but secretly relished the thought that she found him attractive. He turned away, then looked over his shoulder and winked before disappearing into the master bathroom.

When he emerged some ten minutes later, the bed was stripped bare, the bed sheets in a ball by the door, and he found Sara in the kitchen. She stood leaning against the kitchen counter, staring into space with a mug of coffee in her hand. The sight of her naked under the robe she'd been rescued in made his heart skip a beat. She looked up at him and smiled when he approached, and handed him his coffee.

"He's not moved at all since I came into the kitchen," she said with a nod toward Hank.

Grissom took the proffered mug and glanced over toward where Hank's basket was kept. Hank lay curled up in it with his head resting on his front paws and his eyes open wide and looking particularly doleful but trained on a point straight in front of him. It was almost as if he was deliberately giving the pair the cold shoulder. The sight made Grissom smile.

"He's sulking," he said, bringing the coffee to his mouth and taking a careful sip. He looked over at Sara and mouthed, "Watch this." "Why don't we go to the park?" he then suggested, his voice loud and eager.

Hank's ears twitched up at the mention of _park_ and his head turned a fraction toward them.

"We could take a walk," Grissom went on, "Bring a ball and play fetch."

Hank's tail began to wag, his head lifting off his front paws, his gaze looking eager and hopeful now.

"And maybe…grab some breakfast while we're there," he finished more quietly, his words meant for Sara this time. "It's been a while."

Sara turned to look at him and smiled softly. He could tell from the look in her eyes, that his words had reminded her of yesterday's fight. "I'd like that."

Tail beating wildly, Hank stood up and gave himself a good shake, picked up his trusty red ball in his mouth and covered to the distance to them. Dropping the ball at their feet, he sat down and gave a joyful bark.

Sara laughed. "Just give us a minute to get ready, all right?" she said, reaching down to stroke Hank between the ears. Then mug of coffee in hand she turned, headed back to the bedroom, but stopped and turned back around before uncertainly casting her eye all around the room, its furnishings and occupants. "All this," she said with a wave encompassing everything, her tone as serious as the look in her eyes. "It's real, isn't it?"

His hand reaching down to pet Hank, he smiled at her. "It's real."

The walk to the park was brisk and familiar, both hidden behind ball caps and sunglasses despite the early hour, with Hank eagerly leading the way. After a long game of fetch, the trio made their way to the kiosk and the few tables scattered about near it. There were few patrons about, most grabbing a bite to eat on their way to work and none sat at the tables. Hank went straight for the water bowl nearby, while Sara commandeered a table and Grissom went to purchase their usual fare.

As he waited for their order to be prepared, he turned toward Sara and smiled. He thought he could ask her to pop into CSI before shift later in the day so she could view the CCTV footage from the airport. Seeing Heather with her boyfriend, seeing him interact with her, might trigger more of a memory, something more tangible and usable that what they presently had.

Was his wearing a LVFD tee-shirt significant, he wondered again? And if indeed he belonged to the fire department, in what capacity? Assuming Heather had killed her sister, could the boyfriend have had a hand in starting the fire? As Grissom had lain in bed the previous evening, he'd thought about where else they could catch a glimpse of the man, get a better look at his face, an image they could work with, show on the news and put into the facial recognition programme.

Local television news networks had filmed from outside Sara's apartment building the night of the fire. He doubted Sara had seen the news at all. Maybe the networks even had footage that had never made it on the screen but would be of interest to them. Could they have unknowingly caught a glimpse of the man who might have stayed behind to watch his handiwork before he'd accompanied Heather to the airport? And then it came to him, a better idea.

"If I get a hold of a list of LVFD personnel including their mugshots," he said excitedly, setting the tray down on the table between them, "Would you take a look at it?"

"Sure," Sara replied, surprised.

"As a witness, I mean, not a criminalist."

Sara's face softened. "Of course."

Hank wandered over, sitting up on his hind legs near Grissom, waiting for scraps. Sara reached for her juice, put Grissom's in front of him while he lifted their plates off the tray, and she got rid of the tray, leaning it against her chair leg. She took a sip of juice and then broke off a morsel of blueberry muffin while he took a big bite of his bacon and fried egg sandwich. Runny yolk oozed out, dripping down his chin, and reaching for a paper napkin he wiped at it messily while he chewed.

"I was thinking too," he said, taking another hungry bite, "that you could watch the CCTV footage from the airport, see if it triggers any other memories of the guy."

Sara's brow rose. She finished her mouthful of fruit salad before she replied. "You think you can handle that?" she asked, straight-face.

Grissom stopped chewing and pursed his face. "I'll deal with it."

Sara's smile escaping, she brought a spoonful of fruit to her mouth.

"There's footage from the local TV news reports too," he said, on a roll now, "live footage from outside your apartment building on the night of the fire."

Sara stopped chewing suddenly. Her eyes lowered uncomfortably, and realising what he'd just said and how insensitive he'd sounded he put down his half-eaten sandwich and reached for her hand on the table.

"Honey, I'm sorry," he said, genuinely contrite. "I didn't think. Forget I said anything."

"No, you're right," she defended, looking up. "It's worth checking out. It wouldn't be the first time a perp would have hung around, especially with arson."

The finished their breakfast in relative silence, each lost in their own thoughts, before they set off again. When they got home, Sara headed for the shower while Grissom sat down at the table with his briefcase. Quickly, he put a call to Brass before the captain clocked off for the day, and informed him of Sara's ill-timed recollection.

"And she's sure?" Brass asked when he'd explained.

"She's sure," he replied with confidence.

Brass sighed.

"I'm going to call human resources at FD," he went on, flicking through pictures of the case, "and have them send the lab a list of all current and past personnel."

"You know it's a long shot, right?" Brass said. "Anybody can get a hand on these tee-shirts these days."

"I know, but still. What else have we got?"

Brass remained silent for a beat. "Why don't you also get a list of personnel currently on vacation, or on leave? Or that have suddenly quit their position? I mean, he and Heather looked quite cosy to me, and she's been gone a week. Enough time for him to pack up his stuff and get out of dodge."

"You're right."

"Ask for Eileen in HR. Eileen Roberts. She'll help you get what you want, as long as you tell her the paperwork's on its way. Tell her Jim Brass says hello."

Grissom smiled. "I will. Thanks, Jim."

There was another pause. "So, I finally heard from my contact in San Diego. Airport CCTV there caught Heather getting into the LA-bound Surfliner Pacific - last train of the night."

"So she could be anywhere by now."

"That time of night the train would have been empty, and maybe she got picked up on the train's onboard CCTV. Anyways, I called Annie. You remember my friend Annie, don't you? Annie Kramer? Well, she's looking into it for me. Maybe we can find out where she got off and narrow down the search area."

Grissom let out a long despondent breath. _A needle in haystack,_ he thought, _and out of our jurisdiction_. "What would we do without Big Brother, huh?"

"Look at it this way," Brass said, picking up on Grissom's glum tone, "while she's still in the country we got a chance."

Grissom didn't reply. He just hoped the boyfriend angle yielded more for them.

"Is Sara with you?" Brass asked.

Hearing movement, Grissom checked over his shoulder. Sara stood there, watching him, and he smiled. "She is. Why?"

"Tell her I'm off tonight. Quiet night in, pizza and a film is what I got planned – if she's interested in spending a little time with an old guy like me, I mean. Tell her she can even pick the movie."

Once again thanking the captain for his work, Grissom hung up the phone. Then he picked up Sara's hand and tugging her closer to him relayed Brass's news and his offer to spend the evening there. Sara smiled, nodded her head. Her gaze flicked over to the table and the photographs scattered there. "You'll get there," she said, her eyes soft as she refocused on him, "I know you will."

He stared at her intently before nodding his head gravely, grateful for her support but uncertain as to whether he shared her conviction. The rest of the day was spent at the condo. Sara put a load of laundry on, remade the bed and emptied a few more boxes of her stuff while Grissom worked. He'd worried he'd find her presence in such a small confined space intrusive and stifling, but no. It all felt very natural and familiar, very cosy and pleasant. She was getting on with stuff, giving him time and space.

They made their way into CSI some two hours before the start of shift. A courier-delivered LVFD-sealed padded envelope already waited for them at the front desk. Inside a flash-drive that opened personnel files on all six hundred and sixty-four employees currently working for the Las Vegas Fire Department, as well as fifty past employees for the last five years. Acquiring news footage from the local TV stations would take longer, but there was plenty there for Sara to get stuck in.

Sara and Grissom set themselves up at one of the workstations in the A/V lab and Grissom brought up the airport CCTV footage. Sara watched the silent flickering images, her eyes on the screen, narrowed and intent, while his were on hers, watching for a reaction. None came, only frustration as she twisted her neck this way and that, trying to make more of the footage than there was.

"Maybe I could try entering my memory of the guy into the PhotoFit software," she said, after her second viewing.

"I thought about that already," Grissom said, "and we will if nothing comes of tonight."

Sara nodded, then cued up the video back to the start. "I'll watch this again, and then get started on the personnel files."

Sara watched the video a third time, but it didn't trigger any more recollections. She then plugged the flash drive into the computer and opened the file, which was organised alphabetically. "Shall we take out all female employees and anyone born before…" he shrugged, "1965?"

"1960," she amended, and Grissom smiled.

"Oh, so not so young after all," he remarked dryly.

"I'm only being thorough," she said, a smile breaking on her face as she gave him a sideways glance before refocusing on the computer. She tapped a few keys, making the changes to the database. "Down to five hundred and eighty-three," she said in a sigh. "Years of service, or good old alphabetical order?"

"Won't make the list any shorter. Remember," he then said, "some of these pictures might be quite old. Our guy might have changed quite a bit since." Her eyes on the screen, Sara nodded her head, and Grissom pushed up off his stool, patting her shoulder softly as he did so. "Good luck. And buzz if you get something. I'll be in my office."

He'd been working at his desk, replying to emails and catching up on the previous night's case load, for almost an hour and a half when there was a quiet rap on his open door. He looked up, removing his glasses when he saw Sara standing there. She walked up to his desk and placed a cup of coffee on the edge of his desk.

"On a break already?" he asked, smiling his thanks.

"Kind of." She stretched her back and brought her hand to the back of her head, tiredly rubbing at her neck. "Actually, I was about to head off." His puzzled frown was enough for her to launch into her explanation. "I got a text from Jim, and I was wondering if you'd mind if I took the flash drive over to his place. I'll pick Hank up on the way, walk him round the block first." With a start, she fished into her jacket pocket and took out the LVFD flash drive she placed on his desk next to his coffee. "I made a copy."

He nodded. "Nothing so far, then?"

She shook her head despondently.

"How far have you got to?"

"L."

So, she'd gone alphabetically. "Almost half-way," he said, aiming for a cheerful tone, certain her perseverance would pay off. He stood up and walked round his desk, joining her at the open door. "Enjoy your evening with Brass," he said.

He lifted his hand toward her but quickly dropped it back down without making contact, lest someone happened past his office. "I'll see you later."

She held his gaze steadily. "You will."

Giving him one last parting smile, she turned and walked out, taking a right turn toward the exit. Hearing Warrick's warm chuckle, he moved over to the door to watch. Sara had stopped to talk to Warrick who patted her shoulder warmly, and with a wistful look he turned his back on them, headed back to his desk to get shift ready.

Sara never made it to Brass's place.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: I did a little research on tracking cell phones for this chapter, and in 2005/2006 – which is when the story is set – cell phones didn't come with GPS as standard which made them harder to track, especially if they were out of range, than it would these days. I apologise for any mistakes I may have made in that regard. Do point them out and I will try to rectify them.

* * *

Grissom was walking back to his office from the break room when he felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, a smile automatically forming on his face on seeing Brass's name flash on the display, and sat down at his desk.

"Jim," Grissom said into the phone, his smile widening pleasantly, "I hope you're not ringing to complain about Sara's choice of film."

"She's not turned up, Gil," Brass said, anxiously. "She's not still with you, is she?"

Suddenly on full alert, Grissom narrowed his gaze and straightened his back, swallowed and shook his head. "No," he said in a gasp, and checked his watch. "She left nearly three hours ago."

"At first I didn't think anything of it," Brass said. "She said she needed to take Hank for a walk, and I thought that was where she was at. When I didn't get a reply to my texts, I figure she'd left her cell behind. But I've tried again and still nothing."

Grissom tried not to panic. There had to be a rational explanation, he thought, his mind already going through all kinds of scenarios. Maybe Sara had got home and taken Hank for a walk as she'd said she would and then crashed on the couch, which would be where she currently was, her phone on silent or buried at the bottom of her purse, inaudible. Or maybe her cell was out of charge, but even as he thought the words, he knew them not to be true. He remembered very clearly seeing her cell plugged into the charger that very afternoon.

Suddenly, he was filled with a deep sense of foreboding. Could Sara have recognised Heather's boyfriend from the LVFD personnel files, kept the discovery from him and gone to investigate by herself? He played back his conversation with her. But why the deception, he wondered? His foreboding made way to anger that she should choose to put her life at risk, and then to worry because in his heart of hearts he knew she hadn't. Something _had_ happened and it was related to the case. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

"Have you tried calling the condo?"

"I did," Brass said. "I left a message, but haven't heard back. I'm worried something's happened to her."

"Where are you at?"

"I'm still home." Brass's sigh was long and heavy. "I lost track of time. I―I kept thinking another five minute and she'd be here, you know?"

Grissom swiped a heavy hand down his face. Even if she had found something out, it wasn't like her to disappear without telling anyone of her whereabouts, especially as she knew Brass was expecting her. _Please_, _let_ _her_ _be_ _asleep_ _on_ _the_ _couch_, he pleaded, reaching his free hand back to his jacket hanging on the back of his chair and patting its pockets. Grabbing his house keys, he stood up and walked out of his office in search of Greg, finding him in the layout room.

"I'm going to send Greg to check the condo," Grissom told Brass. On hearing Grissom mention his name, Greg looked up from the evidence laid out in front of him and frowned. "See if her car's in the lot. Maybe she's crashed on the couch – dead to the world."

Grissom made eye contact with Greg and without being told to the young CSI began to pack his evidence back into the box.

"I know you don't believe that any more than I do," Brass said. "What if this theory of hers was true? What if Heather's boyfriend had got wind of it and…" he let his words trail and sighed.

"How would he have known?" Grissom argued. "We don't even know ourselves for sure. Just stay put for now. I'll see if I can track her cell."

"And I'll call the hospitals," Brass said, "just in case."

Grissom felt his heart clench. Hanging up his phone, he turned to Greg who was putting the lid down on his box of evidence. "Greg, these are my house keys," he said, holding out the bunch of keys. "I live on―"

"I know where you live," Greg cut in anxiously, taking the proffered keys.

Grissom nodded. "I want you to go and check if Sara's home. She should have been at Brass's, and she's not."

"I take it she's not answering her cell?"

Grissom shook his head. "If she's not there, check for her car. If it's not in the lot, it could be parked in Pedro's lot. That's on the corner of West Lake Mead Boulevard and North Torrey Pines Drive. Oh, and check if Hank's there. If he's not that means they're together."

"Hank?" Greg queried with puzzlement.

"My dog. Sara was headed there to pick him up before going to Brass's place. I want to know if she ever made it to the condo, or disappeared beforehand."

"Disappeared?" Greg exclaimed with disbelief.

Grissom shrugged. "Maybe―It looks that way. I don't know." He could tell that Greg had a lot more questions, but realising time was of the essence he didn't ask them. "Leave your evidence," he said, "I'll log it back in for you."

Greg nodded his head, then made to leave but stopped and turned back to Grissom. "She's going to be okay, right?" he asked, his eyes as pleading as his tone of voice.

"I hope so, Greg. I hope so."

Greg left without wasting any more time and after returning Greg's evidence back to the vault Grissom headed to the A/V lab. All the while he alternated calling Sara's cell and his – no, their – house phone number, pleading with her to pick up, but just like Brass before him got no answer but the click of the answerphone. Archie sat at one workstation, viewing fast-moving CCTV images, while Warrick sat at another working on a photofit reconstruction.

"Warrick," he said, putting his cell away, "I need you to stop what you're doing. It's going to have to wait."

Warrick tapped a few more keys before he lifted his gaze to Grissom. "What's up, man?" he asked. "Need me at a scene?"

_I hope not_, Grissom thought despondently, _I truly hope not_. "I got a call from Brass," he said succinctly. "Sara never made it to his place."

Archie stopped working and swivelled his chair round to listen.

"But that was hours ago," Warrick said.

"When you spoke to her earlier she didn't say she was going anywhere on the way, did she?"

Warrick smiled and shook his head. "No. Just that Brass had the night off, and that she was spending it with him." He chuckled. "She said she'd picked _Million Dollar Baby_ for them to watch."

"I know," Grissom said, his tone musing; he'd helped her pick the DVD at the rental store. "But she never turned up, and she's not picking up her calls."

Warrick's expression sobered. "You think she was involved in a traffic accident?"

Grissom shook his head. "If that was the case we'd have heard by now. But Brass is checking."

"Her cell's got a tracking device. Why don't we try that?"

"That's what I'm about to do," Grissom said. "Meanwhile, I need _you_ to pull up CCTV from outside the building. See if someone was waiting for her. Sara was parked up front, next to my car."

Warrick fixed Grissom with a questioning stare, while Archie turned back to his computer.

"We got here at the same time," Grissom stated simply.

"Oh, that's right," Warrick said. "Sara mentioned about remembering the boyfriend." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "You think she's gone after him?"

_Or him after her_, Grissom thought suddenly. "I hope not," he said, once more hoping she had more sense than to do that without calling for backup.

"You want me to call Nick and Catherine back?" Warrick went on, refocusing him.

Grissom once again checked his watch. "No. They're going to struggle to be done before the end of shift as it is."

"All right," Warrick said, turning back to his computer, "I'll get started."

"Grissom," Archie called, glancing over his shoulder, "I've entered Sara's number in the tracking software. Right now, it's off grid. There's no signal."

Grissom frowned. So the cell was either off, or out of range, he surmised, as he walked over to Archie's workstation and looked at the screen. "Can we find out when it was last in range, and where?"

Archie tapped a few keys and brought up another screen, showing a map of Las Vegas and its various cell phone tower locations. "The last signal pinged from tower 23 off the Beltway in South Summerlin at 22.35."

"She left here just before 10. Can you use her phone signal to map out the route she took when she left the lab?"

"Sure."

Archie turned back to the computer. Grissom's eyes were on the screen. The highlighted path showed that Sara hadn't taken the normal route to either the condo or Brass's home. She'd driven through Winchester and Paradise, then joined the westbound 215 all the way to South Summerlin and taken the turn onto Blue Diamond Road toward the Red Rock Canyon conservation area, Mountain Springs and Parhump.

What was she doing going there, he wondered? At a loss, he looked over at Archie and sighed. Archie stared back at him helplessly for a beat before turning back to the screen and tapping a few more keys, bringing up Sara's phone call history.

"That's Brass's number," Grissom said, pointing at the top five lines of back and forth text messages between Sara and Brass, the last recorded entries. So no one had called her, and she hadn't called anyone since she'd left CSI.

"This number here comes up a lot," Archie said, pointing at another one further down the list. "It's to a PD-issued phone."

"It's mine," Grissom said confidently, earning himself a prolonged stare from Archie.

"Griss, I can't see anything probative on here at all," Warrick called, "Aside from Sara hightailing it out of the lot."

Grissom turned his head toward Warrick, then quickly moved from one workstation over to the next and watched the images on the screen. CCTV outside the main CSI building picked Sara up as soon as she came out. The wide angle shot showed her stopping outside the door and searching through her purse, presumably for her car keys, then looking up toward the road before setting off toward her car.

She was lifting her key fob toward the car to unlock it when she slowed down and looked over her shoulder back toward the road. Her attention seemed fixed onto that spot for a couple of seconds. Grissom checked, but couldn't make out anything. Then Sara turned toward the building hesitantly, as if debating whether to go back in, before quickly covering the distance to her car and letting herself in. The headlights came on, and she backed the car out of the space, leaving at speed.

With a frown, Grissom replayed the images in his mind. "Warrick, play it again, and freeze the frame just before Sara starts walking to her car."

Warrick did as requested.

"What is she looking at there?" Grissom asked, pointing to a point right at the edge of the frame.

Warrick pursed his lips in thought. "Someone pulled up at the curb on the main road," he replied. He tapped a few keys, zooming in onto the area in question. Only the front half of the vehicle was visible in the streetlight, and at an angle. "Looks like a dark Chevy truck. Silverado maybe? An older model anyway. I'll see if I can isolate the plate number."

Grissom's phone rang, and with a start he pulled it out of his pocket. It wasn't Sara's name flashing on the display as he was hoping, but Greg's. While Warrick worked at clearing up the licence plate, he connected the call.

"Grissom, I'm at your condo," Greg said without preamble. Hank's growling and barking made it hard for Grissom to hear. "Sara's car's not in the lot, or anywhere in the vicinity. Your dog's here however, but he won't let me in."

"Just push you way in, Greg," Grissom replied impatiently. "He's harmless. But I don't think you'll find anything."

Greg muttered something in reply, but Grissom had already hung up the phone.

"This is the best I got," Warrick said

Giving his head a shake, Grissom refocused. Only the first three letters of the number plate were visible. It was a long shot for the truck to be involved in Sara's disappearance, but what else did they have? "Okay, put it in the database," he said. "See what comes up."

"I'm sorry, Gil," Brass said, breathless as he strode into the room. He was wearing jeans, a navy polo shirt, and a troubled look. "I fell asleep." He sighed and shook his head in disbelief. "If only I'd raised the alarm sooner."

"You raised the alarm, that's what matters," Grissom said, straightening up. "I take it the hospitals didn't yield anything?"

Brass shook his head. "I almost wished they had. Meanwhile, a BOLO's out on her car." He sighed, then patted his hand to Grissom's shoulder warmly, and nodded toward the computer. "So where are we at?"

"Sara's cell is a dead-end. The last signal pinged off Tower 23 – it's on the Beltway – over two and half hours ago. Looks like she was headed out of town."

"Either that, or someone wants us to believe she was," Brass said. "Does she know anyone who lives out there?"

Grissom shrugged and looked at Warrick who shook his head in reply.

"Okay, so that's where I'm headed," Brass said resolutely. "I'm going to retrace her steps."

"I'll get you a printout of the route she took," Archie told Brass.

The sound of running heels approaching had everyone turning toward the door. Catherine came in, breathless and anxious. "I came as soon as I heard," she said.

Grissom turned a questioning stare toward Warrick who merely shrugged his shoulders. "Wasn't me," he defended.

"_I_ called Catherine, Gil," Brass said. "I got a bad feeling about this, and time's ticking away." He turned to address Catherine. "I think Heather Clarke's boyfriend took Sara to cover his tracks. She's the only one who knows who he is."

Catherine's gaze narrowed. "Sara knows the perp?"

"It would appear so," Grissom said, and then quickly explained about Sara's theory and the fact that she'd been working her way through the LVFD personnel files to identify Heather's boyfriend. "If he's hurt her, Jim," he then said, "if he's so much as laid a hand on her, I-I―"

Eyes narrowing suddenly Grissom stopped dead in his tracks and turned on his heels, headed out of the A/V lab toward his office, leaving everyone gathered to share looks of puzzlement.

"Catherine," he called from half-way down the corridor, without breaking his stride.

"What are you thinking?" Catherine asked, catching up with him.

Grissom didn't reply. He walked into his office and round his desk, flicked through the stack of case files until he located the correct one, and opened it. He searched through the paperwork inside it for the photograph of Heather and her boyfriend and wordlessly handed it to Catherine to look at. Then he picked up the LVFD flash drive, plugged it into his laptop and opened the file before entering the same search criteria Sara had.

"Start with Z and work your way up to M," he told Catherine as he typed. "If Sara's correct in her assumption then Heather's boyfriend is in there somewhere."

He looked up. Catherine's head was cocked to the side, her gaze narrowed and intent as she stared at the photograph. A panting and leashed Hank suddenly entered Grissom's office, pulling Greg along behind him. Tail beating, he walked over to Grissom and yelped.

"I'm sorry, Grissom," Greg said when he saw the look of shock on his boss's face. "He slipped out, and then I couldn't get him back in."

"What's that in his mouth?" Catherine asked.

_One_ _of_ _Sara's_ _socks_, Grissom replied silently. Greg threw Grissom a pained look and shrugged. With a sigh, Grissom crouched down in front of Hank and patted the dog's side tenderly. "I know buddy," he said, "I'm worried too."

He gave Hank another warm pat, and then straightened up and glanced at Catherine. She was watching him closely, and Grissom knew she'd worked it out. Ah, well, it didn't matter anymore who knew, as long as they found Sara in time and she was safe. He'd face the consequences, even if he had to resign as a result. Catherine gave him a soft smile, then lowered her eyes down to the photograph in her hands.

"It's Schaffer, Gil," she said, glancing up. "The man on the picture – Heather's boyfriend. It's Mike Schaffer. I'm sure of it."


	24. Chapter 24

Grissom's gaze narrowed. "Schaffer?" he questioned with disbelief.

"The fire investigator?" Greg gasped, his eyes flicking between Grissom and Catherine uncertainly.

Catherine turned toward Greg and nodded her head. Her gaze was distant, her expression stunned, and Grissom wasn't sure whether it was because of Schaffer's involvement in the case or because the penny had finally dropped about his relationship with Sara.

Greg's confusion was written on his face. "But I thought you and him were―"

"Were what, Greg?" Catherine snapped, her head cocking to the side, her tone hard and defensive.

Greg shrugged, and Grissom spoke, hoping to focus everyone's attention back and diffuse the sudden tension in the room. "How much do you know about the guy?" he asked Catherine, keeping his voice calm and controlled.

Catherine paused, then turned her attention back to Grissom and shrugged. "Outside of work, not much. We went out for one drink a week ago," she added, giving Greg a pointed look, "But that was it. We talked about work, about the fire, Sara. He never talked about himself much."

Grissom's eyes lowered to the photograph Catherine was still clutching in her hand. "And you're sure?" he asked, glancing up. "That's him."

With a sigh, Catherine nodded her head. "I think so, yeah."

Grissom reached for his cell and called Brass. "Where are you?" he asked, as soon as Brass had connected the call.

"Still at the lab. Why?"

"Come to my office." Pocketing his cell, he lifted his gaze to Catherine. "You know where he lives?"

Catherine shook her head. "He never said."

Grissom stared at Catherine. If she believed Schaffer was the man on the photograph, then it was. He was guilty of aiding and abetting at the very least, more if it transpired that he had a hand in starting the fire or even just in covering it up afterwards and falsifying results in his report. Whether he was involved in Sara's disappearance remained to be seen. His gut told him he was, though; it was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

Without wasting time he sat down at his desk and put his glasses on, pulled the laptop forward in front of him and with a few strokes of the keys brought up Schaffer's LVFD employee file. His hands were shaking, and he took a breath, willing the tremor to stop. Hank moved closer and dropped down on his hind legs next to him while Greg and Catherine moved behind him, reading over his shoulder.

Brass strode in through the door, stopping in front of Grissom's desk, his gaze flicking from Catherine to Greg and Hank and then Grissom questioningly. "What's Hank doing here?" he asked, puzzled.

Grissom looked up. "Greg brought him."

"Is that a sock in his mouth?"

"It's one of…" Greg stopped short when realising he'd been about to say, _One of Sara's_ Grissom glanced back at the young CSI. "It's the only way I could get him to come with me," Greg said finally. He pulled his left jacket sleeve up and showed them a bite mark on his forearm. "Thank god it didn't break the skin, or I'd have needed a tetanus shot for sure."

Grissom scoffed, then looked up at Brass over the top of his glasses. "Catherine's IDed Heather's boyfriend as Michael Schaffer."

Brass's brow rose. "The fire investigator who worked Sara's apartment building fire?"

"The one and only," Grissom said, his head shaking in disbelief as he kept his eyes on the screen. "He joined LVFD fourteen years ago – unblemished record. Something to be proud of, actually." He scrolled down the page. "Lives at 362 Palma Vista Avenue. Apartment 2B."

"That's in Winchester," Catherine said.

"On the route Sara took," Brass added.

"I know," Grissom said, and sighed. "But nowhere near where she ended up."

Brass nodded. "I'm calling a judge and get a warrant for his arrest," he said, already pulling his cell out and scrolling down his contacts, while Grissom logged into the DMV database and entered Schaffer's details into it. Hank yawned loudly, then stood up and after Catherine had stepped back went to lie down out of the way. Warrick ran in and waved a computer printout at them.

"I got a hit," he said, excited, talking over Brass who phone glued to his ear turned away.

"1999 Silverado model," Grissom said, reading from the screen, already one step ahead, "Dark Toreador Red Metallic. Registration 631―"

"―HTF," Warrick finished for him, looking more bemused than annoyed at Grissom for stealing his thunder.

"So Schaffer was waiting for her," Grissom mused out loud before slipping his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes. "It was him outside the lab."

Warrick nodded his head. "Yep."

"She must have recognised his truck," Grissom went on quietly, his eyes fixed to a point in the middle distance as the CCTV footage from outside the lab replayed in his mind, "And gone after him." Refocusing suddenly, he flicked his eyes to Warrick and then Greg and Catherine watching silently by. "Why didn't she call to let us know what she was doing?"

"Maybe she thought she didn't have time," Warrick suggested. "That she'd lose his tail if she didn't act swiftly."

Grissom sighed, and Catherine gave him a small smile. "I'm sure she would have called if she could have," she said, holding his gaze meaningfully, supportively, and he nodded his head at her. "We're going to find her, Gil," she added, patting her hand to his shoulder.

Just about managing to keep a lid on his growing disarray, he pinched his lips and once again nodded his head.

"Come on," Brass said, pocketing for his cell as he headed for the door, "We're wasting time. Let's go make an arrest."

"What if he's not home?" Greg asked.

But no one answered the young CSI. For now, work and his home address was all they had, as good a place as any to get started. And at this time of the night, work was unlikely.

Grissom blew out a breath and then stood up decisively. "Is Nick going to be okay working your scene on his own?" he asked Catherine.

"I think so," she said. "It was messy but straightforward."

"What about the evidence? Will he need a ride back?"

Catherine shook her head. "He's got the truck. I caught a ride back to the lab with patrol."

Grissom nodded his head. "Greg, you stay here and keep an eye on Hank. You can't let him wander around. And get Archie to keep tracking Sara's phone on the off chance she gets back in range. Catherine, you and Warrick take one of the trucks, you're coming with. Regardless of whether we find Schaffer home, you'll need to process his place. I'll ride with Jim."

As, both hands gripping the wheel tightly, Brass wove his way through the night-time traffic and spoke on the hands-free phone, arranging backup for when they got to Schaffer's apartment, Grissom's unseeing eyes stared straight ahead, fixed on the road, while his mind asked the same questions over and over again. Where was Sara? Was she hurt? And more importantly would they find her in time?

As they neared Winchester, he couldn't help thinking that they were driving in the wrong direction, well away from where Sara was. Even if they found Schaffer home, which remained to be seen as Grissom feared the fire investigator had already packed his bags and hightailed it out of Vegas to the West Coast and LA, he doubted Sara would be there.

"You okay?" Brass asked as he drove, drawing him out if his daze.

Grissom turned toward Brass. "I'm scared, Jim," he said quite candidly. "I'm scared we're too late. We're missing something, and I can't figure out what it is."

Brass took his eyes off the road and looked at Grissom. "The last piece of the puzzle?"

Grissom didn't answer.

"We'll find her, Gil," Brass said, with a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

Grissom mustered a small smile and nod, then turned to look over his shoulder, finding Warrick and Catherine on Brass's tail with their lights flashing.

"You told them?"

With a sigh, he turned back around and refocused on the captain. "About me and Sara?"

Briefly glancing in his direction, Brass gave a nod of the head.

"No. But I think Catherine has worked it out."

Brass's brow rose. He looked over at Grissom before turning his attention back to the road and making the turn onto Palma Vista Avenue. "She did a good job concealing it, if she has."

Grissom shrugged. "It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is finding Sara. Unharmed."

Brass gave a tight nod, then took in and blew out a deep breath. "In the glove compartment," he said, scanning the left side of the street for number 362, "There's a backup piece. Take it."

Grissom startled. "I got mine in my kit." He frowned. "You don't think we're going to need it, do you?"

Brass shrugged. "Backup's a few minutes away. Best be prepared. We don't know what's waiting for us."

His eyes lowering, Grissom gave a grave nod. Brass slowed down to a crawl, then pointed toward a parking bay and Grissom nodded on recognising Schaffer's Silverado truck. Brass parked his cruiser at an angle behind it so as to impede its exit and Warrick pulled the CSI truck up two spaces down. Grissom scanned quick eyes all around, but as expected Sara's Prius was nowhere to be seen.

Brass and Grissom got out, closing their doors quietly, and reaching for his kit on the backseat Grissom got his gun and flashlight out. The gun he put in his CSI windbreaker, the flashlight he turned on. Brass walked round to the front of Schaffer's truck and felt his hand to the hood while Grissom shone his beam inside the darkened cab, finding nothing of interest.

"The hood's cold to the touch," Brass said when Catherine and Warrick jogged over to them, and gave a lengthy sigh.

Clamping his jaw at the news, Grissom slowly swept his light to the body of the truck, walking around, looking for signs, for evidence as to where Schaffer might have been in the recent past, somewhere he may have led Sara to. But aside for a few old-looking dings and scrapes, he came up blank. Crouching down, he ran his fingers over the dusty paintwork.

"Desert dust," Warrick said, echoing his thoughts.

Grissom nodded, then straightened back up. "It's not looking good," he said, briefly meeting Warrick's gaze, despondent at the lack of clues, suddenly besieged with doubts as to Schaffer's involvement into Sara's disappearance.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Catherine smiled at him. "We'll find her, Gil," she said. "We're following the evidence, and it's pointing to Schaffer."

Backup arrived, its revving engine echoing loudly in the still of the night, its flashing lights illuminating everything in its path. Grissom turned toward it, watched the two officers quickly get out and jog their way over. Brass had a word with them, and one of the officers quickly ran back to the car, opening to trunk for the metal battering ram. Grissom turned toward the captain, his brow raised in a question, and Brass shrugged his reply. They would be going in, regardless.

"Come on," Brass said in a quiet voice, moving toward the building. "Let's go see if he's home."

Grissom turned his flashlight off and grudgingly swapping it for his gun followed Brass. "You stay well back," he told Catherine and Warrick, close on his heels.

Cocking a brow, Catherine reached for her gun holstered at her waist and looked over at Warrick whose gun was already drawn. The group made their way stealth-like up the external staircase and along the corridor to apartment 2B. Brass stopped at the door, indicated for his men to stand either side of it to cover for him, while the three CSIs stayed back.

There was a window to the right of the door, but no light was visible through it. Grissom's heart was hammering in his chest, his mouth was dry, his spirits low. He knew they wouldn't find Sara there, and each second that passed was one too many. Brass took a breath, then made eye contact with everyone, ensuring they were all ready and in position, and banged his fist to the door three times.

"LVPD," he shouted out, "Open up."

When there was no reply or movement inside the apartment, Brass peered inside through the small window, then sought Grissom's gaze before banging his fist to the door again and waiting. A man's gruff voice coming from the left bellowed at them to keep the noise down, and Brass sighed. "Get ready," he told his men.

Brass stepped back from the door and was motioning to the officer carrying the battering ram to come forward when Grissom noticed a light come on deep inside Schaffer's apartment, barely visible through the partially closed blind. He tapped Brass on the shoulder, then wordlessly pointed at it and Brass nodded his head before indicating for his men to stand down.

"Mike Schaffer," Brass called through the door, "this is Captain Brass from the LVPD. Open the door, or we'll break it down. We know you're in."

Nothing happened for a few seconds and Brass was motioning for his man again when a light finally came on in the main room. The officer stood down and Brass took his stance, weapon drawn at the ready. A couple of locks turned, and finally the door opened. Schaffer stood there, wearing pyjama bottoms only and the bleary and dishevelled look of someone who had just been roused from a deep slumber.

"What's this about?" he asked, his voice groggy.

Grissom and Brass exchanged an imperceptible look, and then Brass refocused on Schaffer. The fire investigator had obviously decided to play dumb, but neither man was fooled.

"You alone?" Brass asked, indicating for his men to go in and search the apartment.

Schaffer rubbed at his face and when he'd been made to step back followed with his eyes the officers' progress. "You can't just barge in like that."

"We can," Brass said, easing past Schaffer when the officers called the apartment clear. "We got a warrant for your arrest."

Schaffer tensed. His eyes shut, his shoulders dropping suddenly as he realised that the game was up. He suddenly glanced toward the door, as if thinking of making a run for it, but Brass clamped his hand on his elbow, keeping him in place.

"One of our CSIs is missing," Grissom said, putting his gun away as he stepped forward. "You know anything about that?"

Schaffer's lips twitched with the beginning of a smile. "Not Catherine, I hope."

"No, not me," Catherine said, pushing her way in past Grissom and throwing Schaffer a dark look.

"Sara is missing," Brass said, "the CSI who lived in your girlfriend's apartment building. The one that went up in smoke. We know you know where she is."

Schaffer pursed his mouth, shook his head in reply. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me," Grissom said through gritted teeth, as he took a step closer to Schaffer and looked at him straight in the eye. "I know she saw you outside of CSI earlier tonight, recognised you or your truck and went after you. Where is she?"

Schaffer held Grissom's gaze defiantly, but didn't reply.

The muscles in Grissom's jaw twitched with tension, with the effort it took for him to keep his cool. "Where is she?" he asked again, louder this time and in Schaffer's face. Warrick moved behind Grissom supportively.

"You don't have anything on me," Schaffer said, still holding Grissom's gaze unwaveringly, "About anything."

Warrick stepped round Grissom and jabbed an aggressive finger at Schaffer. "We got _you_ on CCTV outside the crime lab waiting for her. Give it up already!" he added, his voice rising in frustration. "Where is she?"

"I was at the lab," Schaffer said, "Dropping paperwork. I don't know anything about your CSI going missing."

"You're lying," Catherine spat.

Schaffer's eyes flicked over to Catherine, dark and narrowed, but he bit his tongue. Grissom turned to Warrick, wordlessly instructing him to start processing the apartment and search for something, _anything_ that might indicate Sara's whereabouts. "Catherine," he said, when Warrick grudgingly walked away from Schaffer toward what they assumed to be the bedroom, "find the keys to his truck. See if it's got GPS."

Catherine held Schaffer's gaze a moment longer before she turned to Grissom and nodded her head at him.

"We got you for aiding and abetting and accessory to murder," Brass said, "that's enough for now."

Grissom opened his mouth to argue, say that he wanted to question him some more, but Brass silenced him with a look that said, "Let's do this properly, at the station." And to Schaffer, "You thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?"

"Griss, take a look at this," Warrick said, returning into the main room with a sports bag. "He was all packed, ready to go."

Brass turned a cocked brow onto Schaffer. "Going somewhere, were you?"

"I got some leave due."

Brass's smile was wry. "LA, is it? Girlfriend waiting for you there?"

Schaffer's expression darkened.

Brass shook his head in disbelief. "You're all the same―so goddamn predictable. Come on. Get dressed, you're coming with us. And LA, it ain't."

"You got nothing on me."

"Save it," Brass said. "We got all the evidence we need. We know that Leah's in the morgue, not Heather, and that she was killed before the fire was started to cover up her death. We also know that you helped Heather leave Vegas. That's enough for now. You thought you'd covered your tracks, didn't you? Well, you didn't do it well enough."

Brass read Schaffer his Miranda rights, and then instructed his men to take him into custody and start booking him, that he wouldn't be far behind to question him. He and Grissom followed the trio out and watched from the first floor as Schaffer was led down the stairs and helped into the backseat of the awaiting police cruiser.

Catherine looked up from searching Schaffer's truck and watched too, before lifting a concerned gaze up to Grissom. Their eyes met briefly, and she shook her head forlornly, indicating that the truck search had yielded nothing. Unable to stare back at her without revealing the true extent of his despair Grissom soon averted his eyes back to the departing car.

Shaffer was guilty and headed straight to jail, there was no doubt about it. But was he involved in Sara's disappearance too? He'd known that the chances of finding Sara with Schaffer were slim to none, but he'd hope for a clue, some indication that Schaffer was indeed behind her vanishing. Instead of supporting that theory, the evidence – or lack of, as the case was – pointed the finger of guilt away from Schaffer.

His gut still told him differently. Sara had gone after him, he was sure of it. For whatever reason, she hadn't been able to make contact to let them know. And now she was missing.

"Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed suddenly, slamming his hands on the safety railing when all he could make out of the car were two receding tail lights far up the road. And then in a fraught whisper turning toward Brass, "Where the hell is she?"

Brass looked over at him, but before he could answer Grissom's cell rang. With a start, Grissom reached into his pocket and pulling his cell out looked at the screen. "Greg," he said, connecting the call with a sigh, "What's wrong now?"

"I think I know where Sara is."


	25. Chapter 25

Grissom's eyes widened with disbelief when he heard Greg's words. "Where?" he barked into the phone, nodding his head at Brass that Greg had something and they should make tracks.

Brass nodded back, then pulled his cell out of his pocket and stepped away while Grissom made his way inside Schaffer's apartment, looking for Warrick. Greg spoke on.

"Well, at first, I thought Schaffer had taken Sara back to the scene – I mean her apartment building," he said quickly, "but then I thought that was a long way from where we last got a signal from her cell and―"

"Greg," Grissom cut in impatiently, "Get to it."

"Sorry." Greg paused, and Grissom frowned on hearing the revving of an engine as it started up. "I managed to find another address for Schaffer," Greg said, coming back on at last.

Grissom paused at the threshold to the bedroom. "You what?"

Warrick turned round and looked up with interest at the sound of Grissom's voice.

"A farm out near Calico Basin," Greg said, "Ten miles off Blue Diamond/Red Rock Canyon Road. It was listed on his next-of-kin details. "

Grissom blew out a breath and wiped his hand over his mouth. A little further on from where they'd lost the signal to Sara's cell. How could he have missed that?

"It's his parents' place," Greg went on. "Well, his father died ten years ago. I'm not sure about the mother. I'm headed there now. There's a sister too, listed under his next-of-kin but she lives out of state."

Dared he hope they would find her there? And in time? "You called PD for backup?"

"I have. They're meeting me there."

"Okay. Be careful. We got Schaffer in custody, but you never know**. **I'm on my way with Brass."

Putting his cell away, Grissom turned toward Warrick, hastily relaying Greg's news and then quickly adding, "I need you and Catherine to finish up here, find as much evidence of Schaffer's involvement with Heather as you can. That son of a bitch needs to go down for what he did."

Warrick looked a little peeved that he was asked to stay behind but he didn't question Grissom's orders, giving instead a grudging nod. "I found a bus ticket to LA in his travel bag," he said, "But nothing else. Aside from the one bag, looks like he was leaving it all behind."

"Or planning on returning," Grissom said in a sigh.

Warrick picked up an evidence bag from the top of the bed and showed it to Grissom. "I got his wallet and cell phone. I'll take a better look at them when I get back to the lab." He sighed, opened his hands out before dropping them in frustration. "I haven't found anything at all linking him to Sara's…disappearance."

"Keep looking."

Warrick nodded, and hearing Brass call over to him that he was ready Grissom quickly turned on his heels only to bump into Catherine as he hurried out of the apartment. She did a double take, and then her gaze narrowing threw him a questioning look. "Where are you going?"

"Talk to Warrick," he said, rushing past her. "He'll explain. I got to go."

"Gil!" Catherine called after him. "What's going on?"

"I haven't got time, Catherine," he called back, looking over his shoulder as carefully he jogged down the exterior stairs. "Talk to Warrick."

Brass had the engine running in his car when he got there. Quickly, he got in and told Brass where to drive to. Brass didn't waste any time, leaving in a squeal of tyres as removing his gun and flashlight from his pockets Grissom fumbled with his seat belt.

"You know," Brass said with a sideways glance, "You really need to get yourself a holster."

"For the flashlight?" Grissom asked, the corner of his lip curling up despite himself.

Brass arched a wry brow in his direction and Grissom sighed.

"I got one," he said. "I just choose not to wear it."

Eyes back on the road, Brass asked, "So what has boy wonder found?"

Grissom briefly explained about the second address, his mother's address listed under 'next-of-kin' in Schaffer's FD file, he'd overlooked. If anything had happened to Sara, if his carelessness meant he was too late, he'd never forgive himself. So much time had been wasted. If only he'd shown Schaffer's airport picture to Catherine. She'd have recognised him, and Schaffer would have been behind bars sooner. More importantly, Sara would be home, safe and waiting for him with Hank, instead of in danger.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Gil," Brass said, cutting into his thoughts. "You're doing all you can. _We're_ doing all we can."

"It's not enough," Grissom scoffed, and then more quietly as his mind continued to churn over the possibilities, "Why would he take her to his mother's farm?"

"Maybe it's empty. Or maybe he was going there anyway and didn't realise Sara was on his tails."

"At that time of night?"

Brass's only reply was to shrug his shoulders and to slow down as he negotiated the right turn onto East Flamingo Road.

Grissom sighed. "Why would she have followed him all the way there? And without calling for backup? It's such a remote, desolate area."

Brass took his eyes off the road. "I don't know, Gil," he said in a despondent breath. "I don't know."

"And then what? He drove thirty miles out, and then straight back to Vegas? Back to his apartment? That engine was cold, Jim, he'd been home a fair while when we got to him. No," Grissom said, answering his own question, "he knew she was following and he lured her there."

"Risky move if he did; he had to be thinking she'd called for backup."

"But she didn't, did she?"

Brass acknowledged the point, then continued speeding along in the fast lane, glancing left and right but barely slowing down as they crossed Las Vegas Boulevard and then the freeway, headed dead west toward Spring Valley and beyond where they'd eventually join the northbound Beltway until they took the turn onto Blue Diamond Road where they'd lost Sara's trace. Brass reached down, turning the sound on his police radio up. Grissom settled his gaze on the road again, but didn't notice any of the usual landmarks looming bright and tall in the night Vegas sky, hotels and casino resorts and tourist attractions that gradually made way to a more suburban landscape. His thoughts were on Sara, hoping – no, praying – that he'd get to her in time.

_Just hold on_, he kept telling her, _just hold on. I'll find you._

"Even if she didn't know who he was," he said when the Vegas nightlights were well and truly behind them, unable to let the topic go, his growing desperation and lack of understanding as to Sara's actions undisguised in his tone, "she'd have had his truck's plate number by then. She _could_ have called it in."

Brass's face was dark, drawn in concentration, as he flicked his eyes over to Grissom, but didn't otherwise comment. When a few minutes later they left the main road, taking a left toward Calico Basin, Brass had his main beams on but it barely did anything to illuminate the pitch-black all around them. Grissom knew there were tall red mountains looming on the left and a vast expanse of rocky, canyon-like desert to the right, but he couldn't make any of it out, his surroundings seemingly blacker than the sky.

The concrete road soon made way to a single dirt track road and a very bumpy ride, and the two men exchanged looks, wondering whether they were still going the right way. Brass put a call to the radio to check. Hand firmly clamped around the grab-handle above his head, Grissom glanced at the lit-up dash clock: over five hours since Sara had left the lab. With each hour, his tension increased. Brass slowed down so he wouldn't miss the turn off to the farm then pointed to his left. Grissom nodded his head and Brass forked off.

A mile or so later, Grissom pointed up ahead in the distance toward red and blue lights flashing at them like a beacon. Brass nodded and picked up his speed again. When they finally got there, they pulled up behind the lab's black truck and a black and white. Both vehicles' headlights were on, illuminating a low-slung rectangle of a rambling log farm and barn-like outbuilding.

Grissom got out of the car. The desert wind blew strong and biting, unobstructed as it picked up dust and sand. He pulled his windbreaker tightly to him, did it up and turning the collar up looked skyward. The lack of stars and moon indicated heavy cloud cover and he wondered if a storm was brewing. He switched his flashlight on, then reached for his cell and checked the display, sighed. No cell service, as he feared.

Loud and frantic barking coming from Greg's truck caught his attention, and he looked up, finding Hank on the backseat barking at him through the window. His ears hummed with tension and he was so preoccupied that he didn't notice Greg jog over to him and Brass, his flashlight casting a low swinging beam in front of him.

"I'm sorry," Greg said breathlessly, almost having to shout to be heard over the noise of the wind and Hank's barking. He looked fed-up and disappointed. "She's not here." Grissom's eyes closed and he shook his head, a gesture Greg misinterpreted for reproach rather than the despair it conveyed. He turned toward Brass. "I really thought that's where he'd taken her."

"You've been inside?" Brass asked.

Greg nodded his head.

"What's Hank doing here?"

Greg shrugged. His eyes flicked from Grissom to Brass then back to Grissom again. "I couldn't leave him at the lab, could I? You said—"

"Never mind what I said," Grissom cut in impatiently, and then to Brass, "Let's go check everywhere again." Leaving his two colleagues to share looks of concern, he moved to the CSI truck and let Hank out.

* * *

Sara woke up shivering and disoriented. Her breathing was slow and ragged, painful and full of dust. A headache pounded between her ears, making coherent thoughts difficult. She lay on uneven ground, on her front and at a downward angle, with her left arm folded above her head and her right one pinned underneath her. The ground was hard and cold, the sharp edges of the rocky terrain digging into her sore and battered body. She licked her chapped lips, tasting blood and dirt.

She blinked several times and weakly tried lifting her head off the ground to find her bearings, but could not dissipate the heavy darkness around her. It was oppressively dark, like someone had flipped a switch and turned out all the lights. Cold, relentless wind whipped desert dust in her face, stinging her lips and eyes, filling her nostrils and lungs, and slowly she turned her face away. She breathed for a few seconds before she tried shifting her body to free her right arm from under her, but it hurt too much and she collapsed again.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she fought to catch her breath. Something was wrong with her lungs, she could tell. Her shivering intensified; her teeth began to chatter. Sometime during the crash, she realised, she'd lost a shoe and that foot felt completely numb. She was too exposed, too vulnerable. She couldn't stay where she was. She needed to move, find shelter and fast. But where? She wrenched her right arm from underneath her and tried pushing herself up on her forearms first, and then on all fours. She couldn't.

The intense pain in her chest she'd expected and could almost ride out but the sharp, sudden stab in her left leg had her cry out, leaving her panting and nauseous. It had to be broken, some ribs too. Tears sprang in her eyes. She clenched them shut and clamped her teeth and gently lowered herself back to the ground while once again she caught her breath and the queasiness slowly subsided.

_Think_, she admonished anxiously, _think!_ _What else can you do? "_The car," she mumbled, "I must get to the car."

She remembered jumping out of it after it left the road, careening uncontrollably down the embankment. She'd heard its windows smashing, its metal body crumpling as it bumped and rolled all the way down the steep ravine. She'd tried to cushion her fall, but evidently not well enough. She had to get to the Prius and seek shelter until morning. Her purse was inside it, her cell too. She'd desperately been trying to reach it when she'd lost control of the car.

She'd left the CSI lot so quickly, had been so hell-bent on following the Silverado, on getting its registration and not losing its tail that she'd not had time to put her phone on the hands-free stand on the dash. While she drove she'd managed to get it out of her purse, intending to call for backup, but one sudden, sharp braking as she took a left turn and the phone had slid out of her hand and dropped in the passenger footwell out of reach.

She forced her eyes open and turned toward the top of the slope where the road should be. It wasn't a road, she remembered suddenly, despondently, but merely a little-used dirt track that probably wasn't on any roadmap. Although the wind whistled in her ears, whipping her hair about her face, Sara got a sense of immense quiet all around quite at odds with how she felt inside. Clouds moved overhead, carried by the wind, briefly uncovering enough of the moon to cast a dim light.

How long had she been unconscious, she wondered? How long till sunrise? She extended her arm and checked the time on her wristwatch but couldn't make out the digits. Then she turned toward the bottom of the ravine, following with sore and blurry eyes the car's most likely downward path, looking for the faint glimmer of headlights or glint of metal. When she could see nothing, she let her head fall with a sigh, resting the side of her face on her arm, and closed her eyes.

She had no one but herself to blame for the mess she now found herself in. She'd been so stupid. Going after the suspect was one thing, but once she'd made out the truck's registration plates she should have stopped to call it in and let a squad car take over. But she'd been so afraid of losing its trail. He knew she was following, and she feared he'd ditch the truck and disappear for ever unless she kept with him. She'd never managed to take a good look at his face and couldn't be sure it was in fact Heather's boyfriend.

Still wasn't sure.

The loud squawking of a vulture overhead brought her back to the present. She shouldn't try to get to the car, but to the road. That was her best chance. Even if she managed to locate her cell and it hadn't been smashed to pieces during the crash she doubted she'd get any service**. **And she knew she wouldn't be strong enough to make it down to the car and then back up the slope to the road. How far would she have to crawl to get to it, she wondered? And did she have the strength?

She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. An image of Grissom clasping Hank tenderly to him as they posed near a waterfall not so far from where she lay now appeared on the inside of her eyelids. She didn't have to try hard to see them as clearly now as the day she'd taken the photograph nearly a year ago. Holding on to the image, she forced her eyes open.

"Come on, Sara," she muttered through gritted teeth as once again she tried pushing herself onto her elbows, "you got to start moving and stay moving or they'll never find you and you'll never see them again. You got yourself out of that goddamn fire last time, you can do it again."

Help was on its way, she knew it. She just had to do what she could to hold on until then.


	26. Chapter 26

Dawn was beginning to break, casting its hazy light over the desolation all around, when they finally decided to give up searching the farm. They'd looked everywhere, inside the long-abandoned house and its dank basement, the various outbuildings and surrounding area all the way down to a dry creek bed, but had come up blank. Greg had gone back, needed at a crime scene Grissom should have covered. He'd asked Warrick, long finished in Schaffer's apartment, to go in his place while Catherine minded the fort. Nick still wasn't back.

Schaffer's wallet had yielded a photograph showing him and Heather in a loving clinch. Text messages on his cell phone provided enough evidence to convict him of aiding and abetting at the very least and a number with a Santa Clarita area code that would hopefully lead them to Heather. They didn't have motive for Leah's murder yet, but it was only a matter of time until they did. Grissom would bet his bottom dollar that money was involved, or a man, or both. He didn't know what he'd do without his team, always faithful and reliable, ready to step in wherever, whenever he needed them to and picking up his slack.

Grissom stood by Brass's car, a panting Hank lying at his feet. His gaze was cast out, unseeing, toward the horizon and the rising sun, his mind thinking of Sara. He felt so powerless, so helpless. She was out there, somewhere, and he still had no idea where. He'd hoped Hank could have picked up her scent, but he hadn't. The strong wind probably hadn't helped, even if the rain had held off. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face tiredly.

"Come on, Gil," Brass said, softly touching him on the arm, "She's not here. Let's get back to PD, question Schaffer. If he's got something to do with her disappearance I swear I'll get it out of him."

Grissom sighed, gave Brass a long sideways look and casting his eyes out again shook his head. "She's somewhere near," he said. "I can feel it."

"We've looked everywhere," Brass said. "There's no evidence anyone's been here for a long time. You said so yourself. The house hasn't been touched. No tyre marks anywhere except for ours, nothing."

Grissom pursed his mouth, still unconvinced.

"I say it's time we went back, and talked to Schaffer," Brass insisted.

Grissom let out a long breath, but finally turning toward his long-time friend and colleague nodded his head resignedly. He let Hank in the rear of the car, and then took his place at the front while Brass fired up the engine. They followed the black and white out of the farm and back onto the dirt track, the mood quiet and taciturn, disappointed. They'd been driving for fifteen minutes when unusual skid marks etched deeply into the gravel on Brass's side of the track ahead caught Grissom's attention. It looked like a vehicle had hit the raised bank before careening off the road. His gaze narrowing, he straightened up in his seat.

"Stop the car!" he almost shouted, his eyes scanning the roadside as he swivelled around in his seat when Brass overshot what he'd seen.

It took a few yards for Brass to do as bid, but no sooner was it safe to do so than Grissom had jumped out of the car. As quickly as he could, he ran to where he'd seen the tyre tracks, followed them until they ended and leaned over the edge of the ravine, shielding his eyes against the glare of the low sun to get a better look. Down below on a dry river bed right at the bottom of the canyon laid the shell of a crumpled vehicle. It sat on its roof, its front end facing toward him, flattened.

"Sara!" he yelled, immediately stepping over the bank and half-scrambling, half-sliding down the steep, rocky slope in his haste to get to the Prius.

Distantly, he heard the roar of a motor as Brass reversed the car at great speed before it stopped at his level. A door opened and Brass's voice rang out as it called his name. Hank must have jumped out too because his frantic barking filled the ensuing silence. Grissom slipped, twisting his ankle, and fell back onto his backside, but using his bare hands as leverage continued on fearlessly sliding down the slope while avoiding small debris that had broken off the car.

"Sara, hold tight!" he called as he neared the car, unfeeling of his hands' cut and abraded skin or throbbing ankle, and then in a breathless cry, "I'm coming."

Grissom was gasping for breath when he finally reached the Prius. Ignoring his pain, he fell forward on his knees near the upside down, bent out of shape, open driver's side door and looked inside. It was empty, much to his relief, for judging by the state of the car had Sara been inside she would most probably have been crushed to death. He searched for traces of blood, signs that Sara had been in the car when it had gone off the road, but found none.

The khaki canvas strap of Sara's purse wedged between the seats caught his eye and carefully he reached inside. The purse was jammed, and he couldn't pull it free. He leaned in as much as he could without touching the precariously balanced car and took as good a look as he could inside, finding the DVD of _Million Dollar Baby_ Sara had picked to watch with Brass. He picked up the case and turned it in his hand. It was cracked and dusty, but otherwise seemingly intact.

Had the car simply been dumped there, he wondered, pushed over the bank down the ravine for quick disposal while Sara was held someplace else?

A wave of despair crashed over him as once again he found himself no closer to finding her. He turned on hearing rocks and gravel tumble down the slope, and watched Brass, the two uniformed officers from the black and white and Hank cautiously join his side. The captain threw him a questioning look and Grissom shook his head. Brass's gaze moved to the rear of the car and the trunk, and Grissom felt himself go weak at the thought that Sara was locked, trapped inside it. It hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Oh, Jim, no."

Brass looked pained. "Move back," he said.

Grissom numbly did as bid and holding Hank back so the dog didn't get in the way watched as Brass and his two officers moved to one side of the Prius. They tried shifting the car, part-pushing, part-rocking it, to get it back the right way up, but even when Grissom joined in with the effort it was still far too heavy and mangled to budge.

"Hold the car steady," Grissom instructed anxiously, and wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm going to try to reach the trunk from the inside."

Wincing as he knelt down, he waited until the car had stabilised to pull the rear door handle and wrench the door open with all his might, once, twice, three times. It opened a crack, and Brass and the officers reached their hands in. All together they managed to force the door open wide enough for Grissom to reach in and pull down the lever that released their side of the seatback. It popped free and Grissom pulled the seat toward him as much as he could while Brass flashed his light into the opening. Hank began barking.

"She's not here," he said, when he couldn't see anything. And then louder as he crawled out of the car, "She's not there!"

Hank's barking became more frantic, more urgent, and Grissom idly turned toward the sound, finding the dog half-way down the slope thirty yards or so away from them. He hadn't even realised he wasn't by his side anymore. When Hank had Grissom's attention he stopped barking and picked something up in his mouth before carefully picking his way back to them. Grissom narrowed his eyes, then glanced at Brass who was watching Hank too.

"I think he's found something," he said, pushing up to his feet with difficulty, and sore and breathless rushed over to meet Hank.

He could barely put any weight on his ankle, but buoyed up by adrenaline pushed through the pain. His heart sank as getting closer he recognised Sara's running shoe. He took it from Hank and turned toward Brass who had followed. "It's Sara's," he confirmed, thinking that at least now they were sure she'd been in the car in the first place and they should carry on looking for her. He nodded back at the Prius. "If she got thrown out of the car and was conscious, she would have tried to find shelter."

"She had to have been conscious," Brass replied firmly, "or we would have spotted her already."

Grissom nodded. "Well, she didn't go for the car."

"I'd have gone uphill," Brass said, "Back to the road."

"Me too."

Brass instructed his men to go back up and search the banks alongside the road in case Sara had made it that far before collapsing, then reached for his radio. Grissom scanned his eyes as far as he could but could see no trail or signs of her. The vegetation was sparse, certainly not large or dense enough to conceal or shelter a body from the elements, but the ground was uneven with grooves and ridges that sometimes curled over making a lip Sara could have rolled against, blending into the desert landscape.

The night had been cold, with strong and biting wind, but thankfully no rain, and Grissom tried to remember what she'd been wearing. Hank gave a whine at his feet, and automatically he reached down to pat the dog's head. "Where is she?" he asked in a distressed voice. Hank barked once, then circled the spot at his feet before going off, sniffing this way and that seemingly randomly first, before picking up a scent and going with it.

Brass patted his hand to his shoulder. "Rescue's on its way," he said. "If she's here, we'll find her."

Grissom gave a nod, then wiped his hand over his eyes and down his face, only then realising it was crusted with blood. They had to assume that indeed she was in the car when it left the road and got injured and if that was the case then she simply couldn't have taken the shortest way back up to the track; it was just too steep, too rugged a terrain.

"You're bleeding," Brass said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"It's nothing," he said, glancing at his hands. "I'm fine."

Brass watched Grissom carefully, then nodded his head, and they decided to split, Brass going North while he went South, his voice echoing Brass's as they called Sara's name. After a minute or so, Hank barked again and Grissom pricked up his ears. The sound was distant, frantic and continuous, coming from a spot he couldn't see from where he stood, but he knew the dog had found something significant. His heartbeat quickened again, the breath caught in his throat. He didn't know if he should feel relieved or scared.

"Over there," he called over to Brass, and unmindful of his worsening ankle set off as quickly as he could.

When he reached the top of the rise and caught sight of Hank, the dog was yapping excitedly while circling around the same spot, and he renewed his effort. His lungs burnt, his breath came in loud pants. As he drew closer, he realised Sara lay prone and unresponsive, but that she'd managed to find a little shelter at the foot of a small rocky outcrop.

She hadn't made it to the road, but in a long, winding way she'd come damn close. She would have been disoriented and cold and scared, and he imagined in tremendous pain. What hell must she have gone through to get where she was? Breathless, he knelt down beside her, and gently, mindful of broken limbs and internal injuries, turned her over. Her body felt so cold, so stiff. Tears filled his eyes as he saw her face, how bloodied and bruised it was.

"Oh, Sara," he gasped, his tears escaping.

Brass reached his side, fearful eyes flicking questioningly from Sara to him and back again. Hank whimpered, then began licking at Sara's face, and pushing him back Grissom put two trembling fingers on the pulse point in her throat, pressing harder when all he could feel and hear was his own fast heartbeat. Closing his eyes, he moved his fingers on her skin and concentrated all his senses, finally managing to find a faint pulse.

His relief must have been obvious, because Brass didn't ask. He simply unzipped his jacket and passed it to Grissom who after tilting Sara's head back to facilitate breathing used it as a blanket on the upper half of her body. Then, he took off his windbreaker and draped it over her legs.

"Help's five minutes away," Brass said quietly.

Grissom looked up and nodded his head. He didn't know what else they could do to help her now, but wait for the EMTs to arrive. Brass reached for his radio, put a call to his men to say to stop looking and bring a first aid kit and emergency blanket, before taking a seat on a rock nearby. Closing his eyes, the captain took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly and let his head drop between his legs.

Thinking it unlikely she could have moved so far with a broken neck or back, Grissom shifted into a sitting position with her head on his lap and cradled her to him. Slowly, reverently, he stroked his hand to her brow, pushing strands of matted hair away from her closed eyes and wordlessly spoke to her – words of reassurance and encouragement that she was going to be fine, but of love and devotion too.

Hank's tail was beating as in turn he watched Grissom then Sara hesitantly, questioningly. It was as if he thought Sara was playing a game, and he didn't understand why she wasn't waking up. Grissom patted the ground beside him, and Hank lay down before slowly inching his body forward until his snout made contact with Sara's hand. He pushed his nose in, gently nudging the hand open, and licked at it lovingly.

The sweetness of the gesture nearly broke Grissom's heart. It was as if the two of them were imparting what was left of their strength, their warmth and love, to her. It must have worked because a short while later Sara began to stir a little. She moaned and groaned, as though mumbling to herself incomprehensibly. Grissom leaned his head closer but couldn't make out what she was saying.

Distantly he heard the sound of approaching sirens and thought that help couldn't come fast enough. Sara's eyes slowly fluttered open, dazed and confused, and she blinked a few times as if trying to clear her vision. Looking up when he felt movement, Hank whimpered and Sara turned her head, wincing as she raised her hand toward him.

"It's okay," Grissom whispered, and stroked his hand to her face lovingly. "It's okay. I've got you. Don't try to move. Help is on its way."

Sara's eyes flickered over to him, but they were still unfocused. "Gil?"

"I'm here, sweetheart," Grissom said, smiling through his tears. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Sara blinked again. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Then her mouth opened and her lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Sshh," he bid quietly. "Don't try to speak."

But Sara had other ideas. She wetted her lips and tried to speak again. "Red Chevy truck," she mumbled weakly. "Silverado. 631―"

"HTF," he finished for her. "I know. We caught the guy."

Sara stared at him for a long time before she nodded her head and closed her eyes. Now wasn't the time to explain. Brass stood up and went to meet the rescue team and EMTs that were scrambling down to them as they carried a spinal board and heavy bags and lifesaving equipment. Grudgingly he relinquished the hold he had on her, and keeping Hank back out of the way watched closely the paramedics take over.

His eyes blurred, and he blinked at his tears. He'd come so close to losing her a second time. He knew he should be angry with her for the needless risks she'd taken when she'd gone after the suspect by herself, but at that moment in time he only felt immense relief that they'd got to her in time, profound gratitude that once again she'd been spared, and love; a love so deep and pure, so all-encompassing as to be overwhelming.

He brought his eyes to her face and found her staring intently at him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried a smile, lifted his hand to stroke the side of her face comfortingly, only to step back when a breathing mask was clamped over her mouth and a hard collar slipped around her neck. She must be in so much pain, and yet was being so brave.

He dedicated his life to searching for evidence to help solve crimes. They all did. It used to be his priority.

Not anymore.

* * *

The end.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing and putting the story in your favourites, those of you who have. It means a lot to know you're still enjoying my stories after all this time.

The epilogue will follow soon. Take care!


	27. Epilogue

Epilogue.

* * *

Grissom signed his name to the last case report on his pile, put it in the to-be-filed tray and checked his watch, his brow rising at how late it already was. He looked at his desk top, straightened his name plate and, satisfied he had everything ready for Catherine, tiredly pushed to his feet. Then he picked up his briefcase and filled it with paperwork on lab policy changes and various guides and leaflets on the latest forensic breakthroughs and gadgets the lab could never afford. All stuff he never found the time to read, but intended to catch up on.

Sara was due to come out of hospital later that day, and he'd taken a week off to be with her. He had been lucky not to break his ankle during Sara's rescue, it was badly sprained, and for the first couple of days he'd either been stuck at home or keeping it easy at CSI doing paperwork, with his leg elevated and an ice pack at the ready. Still now, more than a week later, it still hurt.

Sara, on the other hand, hadn't come off as lightly. She'd fractured both bones in her lower left leg, which had been set in a plaster cast that stopped just below the knee and was fitted with a hard heel she could rest her foot on. The broken ribs suffered when she'd jumped out of the car, coupled with a shoulder strain and the residual lung injury from the fire, made moving and breathing painful and difficult and had meant for a longer stay in hospital.

She was on the mend though, and doing well. He was looking forward to nursing her back to full health and spending a little quiet, quality time with her – just the two of them, recovering at home with Hank, away from it all. A soft, wistful half-smile forming on his face, he reached for the paper crane on his desk and absent-mindedly flattened the creases.

He had it all planned. They would take it easy and recuperate, watch a few movies and maybe take a drive out to Lake Mead. A long walk was out of the question, but if Sara felt up to it he hoped they could go on a boat trip on the lake. He'd never been on one before, but Warrick had taken Tina out for a dinner cruise on a real Mississippi-style river boat and it had sounded nice – romantic, Catherine had said – and apparently the views over Hoover Dam were spectacular. They could take their cameras and capture the sunset.

His smile grew; who said he couldn't do romantic?

Mike Schaffer and Heather Clarke were both in jail, awaiting trial. The Santa Clarita phone number recovered from Schaffer's cell phone had yielded an address and almost immediately, thanks to Brass's contacts, an unsuspecting Heather had been picked up. Once in custody and faced with all the evidence gathered, Heather had confessed to killing her drug-addict sister. The crime hadn't been premeditated, she claimed, even if the cover-up clearly had.

And Grissom had been right – money was involved. Heather had given Leah a roof and a second chance, a chance to get clean and back on her feet. And what had Leah done? Thrown it back in Heather's face and stolen from her. When she had noticed money going missing from her purse, money clearly used to buy drugs, Heather had seen red and the two sisters had argued, the argument soon turning to blows. At first Heather pleaded self-defence, but when confronted with the truth had confessed to throttling her sister in a moment of rage.

The cover-up was Schaffer's idea, Heather maintained, claims Schaffer strongly denied. His word against hers; they might never know the real truth. But regardless, they had enough evidence to charge Schaffer with accessory to murder and falsifying his fire scene investigation report to make the cover up look like an accident. When told, he hadn't looked so cocky anymore. His career was over.

Unfortunately, infuriatingly even, and despite the fact that he was indirectly involved in Sara's accident – Sara had lost control of her car while in pursuit – while Schaffer had failed to offer assistance or report the accident, leaving Sara for dead at the bottom of the ravine, according to the letter of the law he hadn't committed a crime. Sometimes the law was an ass, Grissom thought with a sigh, but what could you do?

"You all set?"

Grissom refocused with a start, then quickly slipped the paper crane inside his case and looked up at Catherine watching from the door. She was watching him with a strange, wistful expression on her face. "I think so," he said, returning her smile. "I've done the roster until the end of the month, and I know you'll be pleased to hear that I'm up to date with all the staff evaluations. I haven't been able to move the budget meeting with Ecklie, I'm afraid. That's on Thursday."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Grissom paused, nodded his head. His gaze lowered uncertainly then came back up to Catherine's face. She must have sensed his hesitation because she looked behind her, then stepped fully into his office and closed the door. He hadn't told anyone about his relationship with Sara, but had been quite candid about his worries for her in front of his team, if not his bosses. As far as _they_ were concerned Sara was going to be staying with Brass for the foreseeable future, while in reality she'd be living with him.

His team _had_ to know though, how he felt - how they felt for each other; they had to have worked it out. Well, aside from Greg who already knew. He'd caught them looking at him with musing frowns on their faces on more than one occasion, and he'd wondered at their thoughts, whether they were judging, condemning even, but no one had asked, and he was grateful. His relationship with Sara was private, and he wanted to keep it that way, at work anyway. Maybe when Sara was back it would be different, but hopefully by then it would be old news and they could just carry on like before.

It occurred to him then that maybe he should tell Catherine, that coming clean would be the right thing to do. "I―I want to thank you," he said hesitantly, "For taking care of grave and allowing me this vacation time. I appreciate it was short notice."

Catherine's expression softened. "You've done it for me often enough. Besides, when's the last time you took time off, huh? Proper time off, I mean."

"Still. Thank you."

Catherine nodded. "Don't mention it."

He glanced down, pinched his lips and nodded his head. He opened his mouth to talk but Catherine beat him to it.

"It's good what you're doing, Gil," she said, "Taking time off to be with Sara."

His gaze shot up to her face in surprise, and she gave him a tender smile.

"She's going to need to you."

He smiled, nodded his head and closed the lid on his briefcase.

"What time is she coming out of hospital?"

"Eleven. But I got a few errands to run first…" Securing the case, he glanced up. Something on his desk had caught Catherine's eye, and he paused.

Frowning as she looked up, she reached for it. "What's this?" she asked, the surprise evident in her tone, as she pulled the realtor brochure he'd forgotten to pack out from under the briefcase. "You're thinking of moving?"

Grissom flicked his eyes down to the brochure. "I am," he said, looking back up with confidence. His underlying intention must have been plain to see because Catherine's eyes widened with glee.

"Does she know?"

He shook his head uncertainly, then took the brochure from her and tidied it away in his case. "I don't know if it's too soon," he said in a sigh afterwards, "or if that's what she even wants. All I know is that the condo is going to be too small."

Catherine watched him for a long moment, as if wondering whether this was the real Grissom standing there and not a substitute. "It's serious, isn't it?" she asked gravely. "Between the two of you?"

He gave her a shy smile and nodded his head. "Very."

"It's the quiet ones you got to watch," she mused, her face lighting up suddenly, and laughing she shook her head in disbelief and walked round his desk to him. "You dark horse!" she exclaimed, smiling widely as she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. And then in his ear and with genuine warmth, as he reciprocated the embrace a little awkwardly, "I'm happy for you, Gil." She pulled back from him and shook her head again. "For both of you."

Despite the lump that had formed in his throat Grissom managed a small smile and nod. He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, his briefcase from his desk, and paused.

"Go. Go be with her. Your secret's safe with me. With all of us," she added, with a wink.

Grissom chuckled. "It took you all long enough to notice."

Catherine's returning shrug was mild. "Yeah, well. We weren't looking."

Grissom's smile lingered on long after he'd left CSI that morning. He fetched Hank from the sitter and then stopped at his mother's for breakfast. Mindful of the time, he was rushing down the last of his coffee when his mother placed a casserole dish on the table in front of him. She lifted the lid, and he looked in, his nostrils immediately filling with the tantalising smell of chilli.

"Some lunch for you and Sara," she signed quickly, happily, when he lifted a puzzled face to her, "Or dinner."

His heart sank, but faced with such kindness he didn't have the heart to tell his mother that Sara was a vegetarian. _I could always freeze some_, he thought with a sigh.

"You just need to heat it up and cook some rice to go with it," Betty went on happily, unaware. "You got rice, haven't you?"

Grissom gave his mother an indulgent smile. "Yes," he signed back. "I have rice, and I know how to cook it too."

A wide smile on her face, Betty patted her hand to his cheek, and he twisted his face from her reach. "You're going to have your hands full as it is," she signed.

His brow arched dryly, but he doubted his mother had meant her words the way he'd interpreted them. "Thank you," he signed, grateful nevertheless. Then he pushed to his feet and took his cup and plate to the sink, Hank close on his heels.

"And send Sara my love," Betty signed when Grissom turned around.

"I will," he replied.

"Tell her I look forward to getting to know her properly, when she's had time to recover, of course."

Grissom's smile was knowing, but he found he didn't mind. Sara was an integral part of his life now, and it was only right that she and his mother got to know each other. "Mom, I…"

He paused with his hands hovering in mid-air uncertainly. He was about to ask his mother's advice on whether she thought it was too soon for him to start making plans for the future, as regards moving house anyway, when he hesitated. Worried she'd get too excited and carried away at the prospect, he decided not to. No, he'd leave the realtor's brochure lying about in the condo and wait until Sara found it. If she was interested – or not, as the case may be – he'd know soon enough. Either way didn't matter to him, as long they were together.

Instead, he raised the fingers of his right hand to his chin and lowered them in thanks and after a moment's hesitation leaned across to kiss his mother's cheek.

"You're a good boy, Gilbert Grissom," Betty signed when he pulled back, the look in her eyes soft and loving. She waved her hand toward the door. "Now go, or you'll be late."

Just after eleven o'clock, he rushed inside the hospital lobby, headed straight for the bank of elevators. He'd showered quickly, but straightening out the condo and speed-walking Hank around the block took longer than he anticipated. He'd just pressed the button to call an elevator when he felt his cell vibrate in his pocket, a short quick buzz that alerted him to a text message. The text, from Sara, read, _Turn around_, and a smile spreading on his face Grissom slowly did as bid. The elevator doors open behind him, releasing a handful of people, but by then he was already making his way to a small waiting area nearby.

He slipped his cell back in his pocket, his brow rising and his smile widening, as he noticed Sara sitting in a wheelchair looking fed-up next to a male orderly in a peach uniform that was holding a pair of crutches in his hand. Her purse sat on her lap, her travel bag on the ground nearby. Their eyes met, and he shook his head in disbelief.

"They didn't give me the choice," Sara said brightly with a nod at the orderly. "And I couldn't stay in the hospital room a second longer. That woman was driving me crazy."

Stifling a smile, Grissom glanced at the orderly.

"Hospital policy, I'm afraid," the orderly explained.

Grissom leaned down and bussed her on the cheek. "How do you want to play it?" he asked, pulling back. "I'm parked out front."

Sara turned to look at the orderly who shrugged his shoulder. "Once you're out of the door, it's up to you," he said.

"Lead on, then," Sara said in a sigh.

Grissom grabbed the travel bag and they made their way outside. The orderly stopped, put the brakes on the chair and passed Sara the crutches.

"I got this strong feeling of déjà-vu," Grissom said as they reached the car.

Sara laughed. "Me too." She craned her neck forward, looking into the car. "No Hank?" she asked, her disappointment palpable.

"He's at home, waiting. I wasn't sure how long we'd be."

He opened her car door for her, moved the seat right back and then helped her inside before stowing the crutches and bags in the backseat and walking round to the driver's side. "Do you think it's a case of two trips to the hospital and get the third free?" he asked, his expression deadpan despite the smile in his eyes, as he secured his seatbelt and put the key in the ignition.

Sara punched him on the arm, hard and dead centre, and starting the car he gave her a long sideways look and bright smile. "Glad to see you back to normal," he said, laughing, "I've missed you." And then, before she could reply as he started the car, "So, where do you want to go?"

"Home," she said. "I just want to go home and shut the door on the outside world for a long while. Give Hank a big hug. Did you get him a big marrow bone like I asked?"

Grissom's smile broadened in amusement.

"He saved my life, you know."

_So did I_, he thought, _and what do I get for my effort? A sprained ankle and not a word of thanks_.

_You get your girl back, you big numbnuts_, a little voice said in his ear.

Head shaking in disbelief, he put the car in gear and set off. At this time of day, traffic was light and fluid and they made good progress. They were driving past the Chipotle Mexican Grill on West Charleston Boulevard when Grissom suddenly remembered to pass on Betty's love and good wishes, and then told Sara about the chilli _con_ carne waiting at home – emphasis being on the 'con'.

Sara laughed, but Betty's care and good intention seemed to touch her, and he knew that the two of them would get on just fine. They lapsed into silence and he concentrated on the road, Sara watching the familiar scenery pass by, and he simply content to have her back by his side.

"Maybe I could pick out the meat," she said musingly after a while, and turned toward him.

"Good luck with that," he said in a scoff, and then his expression sobering patted his hand to her thigh comfortingly. "I'll tell her, next time, when the opportunity arises."

Sara's smile faded and her gaze returning to the road she nodded her head distractedly. Maybe he should have told his mother about Sara being a vegetarian there and then, he thought suddenly. Did Sara mind that he hadn't? Had he done the wrong thing by her?

"I spoke to Jim," Sara said, drawing him out of his thoughts, as he rounded the corner into their neighbourhood, "And he's happy to have everyone round – well, the guys – for breakfast, or drinks or a meal, or whatever."

Grissom pursed his mouth and turning toward her nodded his head. "It's a good idea," he said, bringing his eyes back on the road.

"I'd like to thank them all for everything they've done for me since the fire, you know? And I thought—"

"Why Jim's?" he cut in. "What don't we…huh…have everyone round at the condo? It's your home too now."

Sara stared at him with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Mind what?" Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, he shrugged his shoulder. "That you have your friends – _our_ friends," he amended pointedly, "come round?" He turned to look at her and shook his head. "No."

And he found that to be the truth; he didn't mind. They would just have to be very careful, that's all, especially at work, and if the truth about their relationship came out, if the powers that be were to find out, then they'd deal with it. What was the worst that could happen, he asked himself for the hundredth time? That he was demoted or moved to another shift? He'd take that to losing her for good any day of the week.

He could feel Sara's puzzled eyes on him as he drove. "And you'd be there too?" she asked after a while, the doubt undisguised in her tone.

A giddy smile twitching at his lips, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I might."

Sara's smile widened as the implications of his words sank in, but she turned her gaze to the road without commenting.

He pulled into the condo's car lot, skilfully slotted into his space and killing the engine turned toward her. "Unless, of course," he added mischievously, "you…didn't want me there."

She laughed. "Worried you'd be cramping my style?" she retorted with a playful arch of her brow.

"What style?" he almost said, but kept to himself.

Truth be told, he was worried about what they would all think. He knew he would find it all very uncomfortable at first, but he and Sara couldn't stay cocooned in the condo all the time. There would be times, outside of work, where they'd be with their friends and he'd want to act as Sara's boyfriend rather than her boss. At work, he was boss and could act like it. At home, in social situations, he didn't want to have to pretend or watch his every move. If he felt like holding Sara's hand, he would do it. If his arm were to instinctively drape around her shoulders, he would let it. And if he felt like kissing her, he wouldn't stop himself.

Smiling at the thought, he released his seat belt and shifted on the seat until he could comfortably lean over the middle console. His smile turned shy, a little self-conscious, as looking into her eyes he lifted his hand to her face and stroked his thumb to her cheek. Sara must have read his intention because she swallowed, then moved on her seat and reached out her hand before slowly closing the distance to him until their lips met for a slow, languorous kiss.

She was home. The rest would take care of itself.


End file.
